The  Complete  Works  of 

Washington  Irving 


Bracebridge  Hall 
Life  of  Goldsmith 


THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL    &     COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS          :  :          NEW     YORK 


146710 


"PS 

2.050 


BRACEBRIDGE   HALL 

OK 

THE   HUMORISTS 
A   MEDLEY 

BY 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON,   GENT* 


CONTENTS. 


^..  — ^THE  AUTHOR 5 

^THE  HALL 10 

•^THE  BUSY  MAN 12 

-^FAMILY  SERVANTS 16 

^THE  WIDOW 20 

y  THE  LOVERS 23 

FAMILY  RELICS 26 

AN  OLD  SOLDIER 29 

THE  WIDOW'S 'RETINUE 82 

READY-MONEY  JACK 35 

^    ,  BACHELORS 89 

WIVES      .    • 42 

STORY-TELLING 46 

THE  STOUT  GENTLEMAN 47 

FOREST  TREES 56 

A  LITERARY  ANTIQUARY 60 

THE  FARM-HOUSE 64 

HORSEMANSHIP 67 

LOVE  SYMPTOMS 70 

/^ALCONRY     .    . 72 

VKING 75 

MARK'S  EVE 80 

GENTILITY     .  /. 87 

FORTUNE-TELLING 90 

LOVE-CHARMS 93 

THE  LIBRARY 96 

THE  STUDENT  OP  SALAMANCA 98 

ENGLISH  COUNTRY  GENTLEMEN 156 

A  BACHELOR'S  CONFESSIONS 162 

ENGLISH  GRAVITY 165 

GYPSIES 169 

MAY-DAY  CUSTOMS 172 

8 


CONTENTS. 

»ftMh 

VILLAGE  WORTHIES 176 

SCHOOLMASTER       178 

SCHOOL     . 182 

A  VILLAGE  POLITICIAN 184 

THE  ROOKERY 187 

MAY-DAT 193 

THE  MANUSCRIPT 200 

ANNETTE  DELARBRE 202 

TRAVELLING 219 

.    -  POPULAR  SUPERSTITIONS 224 

THE  CULPRIT 231 

FAMILY  MISFORTUNES 236 

LOVERS'  TROUBLES 238 

THE  HISTORIAN 242 

THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 244 

DOLPH  HEYLIGER 247 

THE  STORM-SHIP 278 

WEDDINGV^. 299 

AUTHOR'S  FAREWELL 306 


BEACEBRIDGB   HALL; 

OB, 

THE     HUMORISTS. 

/ 

A   MEDLEY. 


BY  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 


Under  this  cloud  I  walk,  Gentlemen ;  pardon  my  rude  agwnlt.  I  am  a  traveller,  -who, 
having  surveyed  moat  of  the  terrestrial  angles  of  this  globe,  am  hither  arrived,  to  peruse 
this  little  spot.  — CHRISTMAS  ORDINARY. 

X 

THE  AUTHOR. 
WORTHY  READER! 

ON  again  taking  pen  in  hand,  I  would  fain  make  a  few  ob- 
servations at  the  outset,  by  way  of  bespeaking  a  right  under- 
standing. The  volumes  which  I  have  already  published  have 
met  with  a  reception  far  beyond  my  most  sanguine  expectations. 
I  would  willingly  attribute  this  to  their  intrinsic  merits ;  but,  in 
spite  of  the  vanity  of  authorship,  I  cannot  but  be  sensible  that 
their  success  has,  in  a  great  measure,  been  owing  to  a  less  flat- 
tering cause.  It  has  been  a  matter  of  marvel,  to  my  European 
readers,  that  a  man  from  the  wilds  of  America  should  express 
himself  in  tolerable  English.  I  was  looked  upon  as  something 
new  and  strange  in  literature;  a  kind  of  demi-savage,  with  a 
feather  in  his  hand,  instead  of  on  his  head;  and  there  was  a 
curiosity  to  hear  what  such  a  being  had  to  say  about  civilized 
society. 

This  novelty  is  now  at  an  end,  and  of  course  the  feel- 
ing of  indulgence  which  it  produced.  I  must  now  expect  to 
bear  the  scrutiny  of  sterner  criticisms,  and  to  be  measured  by 
the  same  standard  of  contemporary  writers ;  and  the  very 
favor  shown  to  my  previous  writings,  will  cause  these  to  be 

5 


6  BRACEBRIDGE   HALL. 

treated  with  the  greater  rigor ;  as  there  is  nothing  for  which 
the  world  is  apt  to  punish  a  man  more  severely,  than  for  having 
been  over-praised.  On  this  head,  therefore,  I  wish  to  forestall 
the  censoriousness  of  the  reader ;  and  I  entreat  he  will  not  think 
the  worse  of  me  for  the  many  injudicious  things  that  may  have 
been  said  in  my  commendation. 

I  am  aware  that  I  often  travel  over  beaten  ground,  and  treat 
of  subjects  that  have  already  been  discussed  by  abler  pens. 
Indeed,  various  authors  have  been  mentioned  as  my  models,  to 
whom  I  should  feel  flattered  if  I  thought  I  bore  the  slightest 
resemblance ;  but  in  truth  I  write  after  no  model  that  I  am  con- 
scious of,  and  I  write  with  no  idea  of  imitation  or  competition. 
In  venturing  occasionally  on  topics  that  have  already  been 
almost  exhausted  by  English  authors,  I  do  it,  not  with  the  pre- 
sumption of  challenging  a  comparison,  but  with  the  hope  that 
some  new  interest  may  be  given  to  such  topics,  when  discussed 
by  the  pen  of  a  stranger. 

If,  therefore,  I  should  sometimes   be  found  dwelling  with 

fondness  on  subjects  trite  and  commonplace  with  the  reader, 

I  beg  the  circumstances  under  which  I   write  may  be  kept  in 

recollection.      Having   been   born   and   brought  up  in   a  new 

/country,   yet  educated   from   infancy  in  the  literature   of   an 

/  old  one,  my  mind  was  early  filled  with  historical  and  poetical 

\  associations,  connected  with  places,  and  manners,  and  customs 

t>f  Europe ;  but  which  could  rarely  be  applied  to  those  of  my 

own  country.     To  a  mind  thus  peculiarly  prepared,  the  most 

ordinary  objects  and  scenes,  on  arriving  in  Europe,  are  full  of 

strange  matter  and  interesting  novelty.      EnglamLJs— as  classic 

ground  fcTan^Smerican  as  Italy  is  to  an  Englishman ;  and  old 

London  teems  with  as  much  historical  association   as   mighty 

Rome. 

Indeed,  it  is  difficult  to  describe  the  whimsical  medley  of 
ideas  that  throng  upon  his  mind,  on  landing  among  English 
scenes.  He,  for  the  first  time,  sees  a  world  about  which  he  has 
been  reading  and  thinking  in  every  stage  of  his  existence.  The 
recollected  ideas  of  infancy,  youth,  and  manhood ;  of  the  nurs- 
ery, the  school,  and  the  study,  come  swarming  at  once  upon 
him ;  and  his  attention  is  distracted  between  great  and  little 
objects  ;  each  of  which,  perhaps,  awakens  an  equally  delightful 
train  of  remembrances. 

But  what  more  especially  attracts  his  notice,  are  those  pecu- 
liarities which  distinguish  an  old  country  and  an  old  state  of 
society  from  a  new  one.  I  have  never  yet  grown  familiar 
enough  with  the  crumbling  monuments  of  past  ages,  to  blunt 


THE  AUTHOR.  7 

the  intense  interest  with  which  I  at  first  beheld  them.  Ac- 
customed always  to  scenes  where  history  was,  in  a  manner, 
anticipation ;  where  every  thing  in  art  was  new  and  progressive, 
and  pointed  to  the  future  rather  than  to  the  past ;  where,  in 
short,  the  works  of  man  gave  no  ideas  but  those  of  young 
existence,  and  prospective  improvement;  there  was  something 
inexpressibly  touching  in  the  sight  of  enormous  piles  of  archi- 
tecture, gray  with  antiquity,  and  sinking  to  decay.  I  cannot 
describe  the  mute  but  deep-felt  enthusiasm  with  which  I  have 
contemplated  a  vast  monastic  ruin,  like  Tintern  Abbey,  buried 
in  the  bosom  of  a  quiet  valley,  and  shut  up  from  the  world,  as 
though  it  had  existed  merely  for  itself ;  «r  a  warrior  pile,  like 
Conway  Castle,  standing  in  stern  loneliness  on  its  rocky  height, 
a  mere  hollow  yet  threatening  phantom  of  departed  power. 
They  spread  a  grand,  and  melancholy,  and,  to  me,  an  unusual 
charm  over  the  landscape;  I,  for  the  first  time,  beheld  signs  of  '  ' 
national  old  age,  an  empire's  decay,  and  proofs  of  the  tran- 
sient and  peri8hing_glorie8  of  art,  amidst  the  ever-spri 
and  reviving  fertility  of  nature. 

But,  in  fact,  to  me  every  thing  was  full  of  matter ;  the  foot- 
steps of  history  were  everywhere  to  be  traced  ;  and  poetry  had 
breathed  over  and  sanctified  the  land.  I  experienced  the  de- 
lightful freshness  of  feeling  of  a  child,  to  whom  every  thing  is 
new.  I  pictured  to  myself  a  set  of  inhabitants  and  a  mode  of 
life  for  every  habitation  that  I  saw,  from  the  aristocratical 
mansion,  amidst  the  lordly  repose  of  stately  groves  and  solitary 
parks,  to  the  straw-thatched  cottage,  with  its  scanty  garden  and 
its  cherished  woodbine.  I  thought  I  never  could  be  sated  with 
the  sweetness  and  freshness  of  a  country  so  completely  carpeted 
with  verdure ;  where  every  air  breathed  of  the  balmy  pasture, 
and  the  honey-suckled  hedge.  I  was  continually  coming  upon 
some  little  document  of  poetry,  in  the  blossomed  hawthorn,  the 
daisy,  the  cowslip,  the  primrose,  or  some  other  simple  object 
that  has  received  a  supernatural  value  from  the  muse.  The 
first  time  that  I  heard  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  I  was  intoxi- 
cated more  by  the  delicious  crowd  of  remembered  associations 
than  by  the  melody  of  its  notes ;  and  I  shall  never  forget  the 
thrill  of  ecstasy  with  which  I  first  saw  the  lark  rise,  almost 
from  beneath  my  feet,  and  wing  its  musical  flight  up  into  the 
morning  sky. 

In  this  way  I  traversed  England,  a  grown-up  child,  delighted 
by  every  object,  great  and  small ;  and  betraying  a  wondering 
ignorance,  and  simple  enjoyment,  that  provoked  many  a  stare 
and  a  smile  from  my  wiser  and  more  experienced  fellow-trav- 


8  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

eflere.  Such  too  was  the  odd  confusion  of  associations  that 
kept  breaking  upon  me,  as  I  first  approached  London.  One  of 
my  earliest  wishes  had  been  to  see  this  great  metropolis.  I  had 
read  so  much  about  it  in  the  earliest  books  pot  into  my 
infant  hands ;  and  I  had  heard  so  much  about  it  from  those 
around  me  who  had  come  from  the  ' *  old  countries,"  that  I 
was  familiar  with  the  names  of  its  streets,  and  squares,  and 
public  places,  before  I  knew  those  of  my  native  city.  It  was, 
to  me,  the  great  centre  of  the  world,  round  which  every  thing 
seemed  to  revolve.  I  recollect  contemplating  so  wistfully,  when 
a  boy,  a  paltry  little  print  of  the  Thames,  and  London  Bridge, 
and  St.  Paul's,  that  was  in  front  of  an  old  magazine ;  and  a  pic- 
ture of  Kensington  Gardens,  with  gentlemen  in  three-cornered 
hats  and  broad  skirts,  and  ladies  in  hoops  and  lappets,  that 
hung  up  in  my  bedroom;  even  the  venerable  cat  of  St. 
John's  Gate,  that  has  stood,  time  oat  of  mind,  in  front  of  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine,  was  not  without  its  charms  to  me  ;  and 
I  envied  the  odd-looking  little  men  that  appeared  to  be  loitering 
about  its  arches. 

How  then  did  my  heart  warm  when  the  towers  of  West- 
minster Abbey  were  pointed  oat  to  me,  rising  above  the  rich 
groves  of  St.  James's  Park,  with  a  thin  blue  haze  about  their 
gray  pinnaclesj^x  I  could  not  behold  this  great  mausoleum  of 
in  our  paternal  history,  without  feeling 
my  enthusiasm  in  a  glow.  With  what  eagerness  did  I  explore 
every  part  of  the  metropolis!  I  was  not  content  with  those 
which  occupy  the  dignified  research  of  the  learned 
traveller ;  I  delighted  to  call  up  all  the  feelings  of  childhood,  and 
to  seek  after  those  objects  which  had  been  the  wonders  of  my 
infancy.  London  Bridge,  so  famous  in  nursery  song ;  the  far- 
famed  Monument ;  Gog  and  Magog,  and  the  Lions  in  the  Tower, 
all  brought  back  many  a  recollection  of  infantine  delight,  and 
of  good  old  beings,  now  no  more,  who  had  gossiped  about  them 
to  my  wondering  ear.  Nor  was  it  without  a  recurrence  ef 
childish  interest,  that  I  first  peeped  into  Mr.  Newberry's  shop, 
in  St.  Paul's  Church-yard,  that  fountain-head  of  literature. 
Mr.  Newberry  was  the  first  that  ever  filled  my  infant  mind 
with  the  idea  of  a  great  and  good  man.  He  published  all  the 
picture-books  of  the  day ;  and,  out  of  his  abundant  lore  f  01 
children,  he  charged  "  nothing  for  either  paper  or  print,  and 
only  a  penny-halfpenny  for  the  binding ! " 

I  have  mentioned  these  circumstances,  worthy  reader,  in 
show  you  the  whimsical  crowd  of  associations  that  are  apt  to 
beset  my  mind  on  mingling  among  English  scenes.  I  hope  the? 


THE  AUTHOR. 


9 


may,  in  some  measure,  plead  my  apology,  should  I  be  found 
harping  upon  stale  and  trivial  themes,  or  indulging  an  over- 
fondness  for  any  thing  antique  and  obsolete.  I  know  it  is  the 
humor,  not  to  say  cant  of  the  day,  to  run  riot  about  old  tames, 
old  books,  old  customs,  and  old  buildings ;  with  myself,  how- 
ever, as  far  as  I  have  caught  the  contagion,  the  feeling  is 
genuine.  To  a  man  from  a  young  country,  all  old  things  are 
in  a  manner  new;  and  be  may  surely  be  excused  in  being  a 
little  curious  about  antiquities,  whose  native  land,  unfortu- 
nately, canaotboastof_a  single  ruin. 

Having  Deen~brougntup,  also,  in  the  comparative  simplicity 
of  a  republic,  I  am  apt  to  be  struck  with  even  the  ordinary 
circumstances  incident  to  an  aristocratical  state  of  society.  If, 
however,  I  should  at  any  time  amuse  myself  by  pointing  out 
some  of  the  eccentricities,  and  some  of  the  poetical  character- 
istics of  the  latter,  I  would  not  be  understood  as  pretending  to 
decide  upon  its  political  merits.  My  only  aim  is  to  paint  char- 
acters 


considered  the  study  of  politics,  the  more  I  have  found  it  full 

of  perplexity ;  and  I  have  contented  myself,  aa  I  have  in  my  £  f 

religion,_witb  the  faith  in  wjjichjjgas^  brought. 


_  

my  own  conduct  by  its  precepts ;   but  leaving  to  abler 
the  task  of  making,  converts. 

I  shall  continue  on.  therefore,  in  the  course  I  hiive  hitherto 
pursued ;  looking  ^t  things_poeticaUy,  rather  than  politically ; 
describing  the^T  as  they  are,~7^ter-tfe*»  pretending  to  point 
out  how  they  should  be ;  and  endeavoring  to  see  the  workPW 
as  pleasant  a  light  as  circumstances  will  permit. 

I  have  always  had  an  opinion  that  much  good  might  be  done 
by  frTffumir  manVi"^  ;"  p~~*  K^^XV.  irixh  one  another.     I  may 


be  wrong  in  my  philosophy,  but  I  shall  continue  to  practise  it 
until  convinced  of  its  fallacy.  When  I  discover  the  world  to> 
be  all  that  it  has  been  represented  by  sneering  cynics  andt 
whining  poets,  I  will  torn  to  and  abuse  it  also ;  in  the  me/ra 
while,  worthy  reader,  I  hope  you  will  not  think  lightly  of  me, 
because  I  cannot  believe  this  to  be  so  very  bad  a  world  as  it  is 
represented. 

Thine  truly, 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON. 


10  BEACEERIDQE   HALL. 


THE   HALL. 

The  ancientest  house,  and  the  best  for  housekeeping  in  this  country  or  the  next;  and 
though  the  master  of  it  write  but  squire,  I  know  no  lord  like  him.  —  Merry  Beggars. 

THE  reader  if  he  has  perused  the  volumes  of  the  Sketch- 
Book,  will  probably  recollect  something  of  the  Bracebridge 
family,  with  which  I  once  passed  a  Christmas.  I  am  now  on 
another  visit  at  the  Hall,  having  been  invited  to  a  wedding 
which  is  shortly  to  take  place.  The  squire's  second  sun,  Gbi£, 
a  fine,  spirited  young  captain  in  the  army,  is  about  to  be  mar- 
ried to  hisJiaJthjj^aJHcard,  the  fair  Julia  Templeipn.  A  gather- 
ing of  relations  and  friends  has  already  commenced,  to  celebrate 
the  joyful  occasion  ;  for  the  old  gentleman  is  an  enemy  to  quiet, 
private  weddings.  "  There  is  nothing,"  he  says,  "  like  launch- 
ing a  young  couple  gayly,  and  cheering  them  from  the  shore ; 
a  good  outset  is  half  the  voyage." 

Before  proceeding  any  farther,  I  would  beg  that  the  Squire 
might  not  be  confounded  with  that  class  of  hard-riding,  fox- 
hunting gentlemen,  so  often  described,  and,  in  fact,  so  nearly 
extinct  in  England.  I  use  this  rural  title  partly  because  it  is 
his  universal  appellation  throughout  the  neighborhood,  and 
partly  because  it  saves  me  the  frequent  repetition  of  his  name, 
which  is  one  of  those  rough  old  English  names  at  which  French- 
men exclaim  in  despair. 

The  Squire  is,  in  fact,  a  lingering  specimen  of  the  old  English 
country  gentlemen ;  rusticated  a  little  by  living  almost  entirely 
on  his  estate,  and  something  of  a  humorist,  as  Englishmen  are 
apt  to  become  when  they  have  an  opportunity  of  living  in  their 
own  way.  I  like  his  hobb\*  passing  well,  however,  which  is,  a 
bigoted  devotion  to  old  English  manners  and  customs  ;  it  jumps 
a  tittle  with  my  own  humor,  having  as  yet  a  lively  and  unsated 
curiosity  about  the  ancient  and  genuine  characteristics  of  my 
"  father  land." 

There  are  some  traits  about  the  Squire's  family,  also,  which 
appear  to  me  to  be  national.  It  is  one  of  those  old  aristocrati- 
cal  families,  which,  I  believe,  are  peculiar  to  England,  and 
scarcely  understood  in  other  countries ;  that  is  to  say,  families 
of  the  ancient  gentry,  who,  though  destitute  of  titled  rarlk,  main- 
tain a  high  ancestral  pride  ;  who  look  down  upon  all  nobility  of 
recent  creation,  and  would  consider  it  a  sacrifice  of  dignity  to 
merge  the  venerable  name  of  their  house  in  a  modern  title. 


THE  HALL.  11 

This  feeling  is  very  much  fostered  by  the  importance  which 
they  enjoy  on  their  hereditary  domains.  The  family  mansion 
is  an  old  manor-house,  standing  in  a  retired  and  beautiful  part 
of  Yorkshire.  Its  inhabitants  have  been  always  regarded, 
throu<pf~the  surrounding  country,  as  "  the  great  ones  of  the 
earth ;  "  and  the  little  village  near  the  Hall  looks  up  to  the 
Squire  with  almost  feudal  homage.  An  old  manor-house,  and 
an  old  family  of  this  kind,  are  rarely  to  be  met  with  at  the 
present  day;  and  it  is  probably  the  peculiar  humor  of  the 
Squire  that  has  retained  this  secluded  specimen  of  English 
housekeeping  in  something  like  the  genuine  old  style. 

I  am  again  quartered  in  the  panelled  chamber,  in  the  antique 
wing  of  the  house.  The  prospect  from  my  window,  however, 
has  quite  a  different  aspect  from  that  which  it  wore  on  my 
winter  visit  Though  early  in  the  month  of  April,  yet  a  few 
warm,  sunshiny  days  have  drawn  forth  the  beauties  of  the 
spring,  which,  I  think,  are  always  most  captivating  on  their 
first  opening.  The  parterres  of  the  old-fashioned  garden  are 
gay  with  flowers ;  and  the  gardener  has  brought  out  his  exotics, 
and  placed  them  along  the  stone  balustrades.  The  trees  are 
clothed  with  green  buds  and  tender  leaves.  When  I  throw 
open  my  jingling  casement,  I  smell  the  odor  of  mignonette,  and 
hear  the  hum  of  the  bees  from  the  flowers  against  the  sunny 
wall,  with  the  varied  song  of  the  throstle,  and  the  cheerful  notes 
of  the  tuneful  little  wren. 

While  sojourning  in  this  stronghold  of  old  fashions,  it  is  my 
intention  to  make  occasional  sketches  of  the  scenes  and  char- 
acters before  me.  I  would  have  it  understood,  however,  that  I 
am  not  writing  a  novel,  and  have  nothing  of  intricate  plot,  or 
marvellous  adventure,  to  promise  the  reader.  The  Hall  of  which 
I  treat,  has,  for  aught  I  know,  neither  trap-door,  nor  sliding 
panel,  nor  donjon-keep ;  and  indeed  appears  to  have  no  mys- 
tery about  it.  The  family  is  a  worthy,  well-meaning  family, 
that,  in  all  probability,  will  eat  and  drink,  and  go  to  bed,  and 
get  up  regularly,  from  one  end  of  my  work  to  the  other ;  and 
the  Squire  is  so  kind-hearted  that  I  see  no  likelihood  of 
his  throwing  any  kind  of  distress  in  the  way  of  the  ap- 
proaching nuptials.  In  a  word,  I  cannot  foresee  a  single  ex- 
traordinary event  that  is  likely  to  occur  in  the  whole  term  of  my 
sojourn  at  the  Hall. 

I  tell  this  honestly  to  the  reader,  lest,  when  he  finds  me  dal- 
lying along,  through  every-day  English  scenes,  he  may  hurry 
ahead,  in  hopes  of  meeting  with  some  marvellous  adventure 
farther  on.  I  invite  him,  on  the  contrary,  to  ramble  gently  on 


12  BEACEBEIDGE   HALL. 

with  me,  as  he  would  saunter  out  into  the  fields,  stopping  occa- 
sionally to  gather  a  flower,  or  listen  to  a  bird,  or  admire  a  pros- 
pect, without  any  anxiety  to  arrive  at  the  end  of  his  career. 
Should  I,  however,  in  the  course  of  my  wanderings  about  this  old 
mansion,  see  or  hear  any  thing  curious,  that  might  serve  to  vary 
the  monotony  of  this  every-day  life,  I  shall  not  fail  to  report  it 
for  the  reader's  entertainment : 

For  freshest  wits  I  know  will  soon  be  wearie 

Of  any  book,  how  grave  BO  e'er  it  be, 
Except  it  have  odd  matter,  strange  and  merrie, 

Well  sauc'd  with  lies  and  glared  all  with  glee.' 


THE  BUSY  MAN. 

A  decayed  gentleman,  who  lives  most  upon  his  own  mirth  and  my  master's  means, 
and  much  good  do  him  with  it.  He  does  hold  my  master  up  with  his  stories,  and  songs, 
and  catches,  and  such  tricks  and  jigs,  you  would  admire  —  he  is  with  him  now.  —  Jovial 
Crew. 

BY  no  one  has  my  return  to  the  Hall  been  more  heartily 
greeted  than  by  ]\Ir.  Simon  Bracebridge,  or  Master  Simon,  as 
the  Squire  most  commonly  calls  him.  I  encountered  him  just 
as  I  entered  the  park,  where  he  was  breaking  a  pointer,  and  he 
received  me  with  all  the  hospitable  cordiality  with  which  a  man 
welcomes  a  friend  to  another  one's  house.  I  have  already  in- 
troduced him  to  the  reader  as  a  brisk  old  bachelor-looking  little 
man ;  the  wit  and  superannuated  beau  of  a  large  family  con- 
nection, and  the  Squire's  factotum.  I  found  him,  as  usual, 
full  of  bustle  ;  with  a  thousand  petty  things  to  do,  and  persons 
:to_ attend  to,  and  in  chirping  good-humor;  for  there  are  few 
happier  beings  than  a  busy  idler ;  that  is  to  say,  a  man  who  is 
eternally  busy  about  nothing. 

-^  I  visited  him,  the  morning  after  my  arrival,  in  his  chamber, 
which  is  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  mansion,  as  he  says  he  likes 
to  be  to  himself,  and  out  of  the  way.  He  has  fitted  it  up  in  his 
own  taste,  so  that  it  is  a  perfect  epitome  of  an  old  bachelor's 
notions  of  convenience  and  arrangement.  The  furniture  is 
made  up  of  odd  pieces  from  all  parts  of  the  house,  chosen  on 
account  of  their  suiting  his  notions,  or  fitting  some  corner  of 
his  apartment ;  and  he  is  very  eloquent  in  praise  of  an  ancient 

*  Mirror  for  Magistrates. 


THE  BUSY  MAN.  13 

elbow-chair,  from  which  he  takes  occasion  to  digress  into  a 
censure  on  modern  chairs,  as  having  degenerated  from  the  dig- 
nity and  comfort  of  high-backed  antiquity. 

Adjoining  to  his  room  is  a  small  cabinet,  which  he  calls  his 
study.  Here  are  some  hanging  shelves,  of  his  own  construc- 
tion, on  which  are  several  old  works  on  hawking,  hunting,  and 
farrier}*,  and  a  collection  or  two  of  poems  and  songs  of  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  which  he  studies  out  of  compliment  to  the 
Squire ;  together  with  the  Novelist's  Magazine,  the  Sporting 
Magazine,  the  Racing  Calendar,  a  volume  or  two  of  the  New- 
gate Calendar,  a  book  of  peerage,  and  another  of  heraldry. 

His  sporting  dresses  hang  on  pegs  in  a  small  closet ;  and 
about  the  walls  of  his  apartment  are  hooks  to  hold  his  fishing- 
tackle,  whips,  spurs,  and  a  favorite  fowling-piece,  curiously 
wrought  and  inlaid,  which  he  inherits  from  his  grandfather. 
He  has,  also,  a  couple  of  old  single-keyed  flutes,  and  a  fiddle 
which  he  has  repeatedly  patched  and  mended  himself,  affirming 
it  to  be  a  veritable  Cremona,  though  I  have  never  heard  him 
extract  a  single  note  from  it  that  was  not  enough  to  make  one's 
blood  run  cold. 

From  this  little  nest  his  fiddle  will  often  be  heard,  in  the 
stillness  of  mid-da}',  drowsily  sawing  some  long-forgotten  tune  ; 
for  he  prides  himself  on  having  a  choice  collection  of  good  old 
English  music,  and  will  scarcely  have  any  thing  to  do  with 
modern  composers.  The  time,  however,  at  which  his  musical 
powers  are  of  most  use,  is  now  and  then  of  an  evening,  when 
he  plays  for  the  children  to  dance  in  the  hall,  and  he  passes 
among  them  and  the  servants  for  a  perfect  Orpheus. 

His  chamber  also  bears  evidence  of  his  various  avocations : 
there  are  half-copied  sheets  of  music ;  designs  for  needle-work  ; 
sketches  of  landscapes,  very  indifferently  executed ;  a  camera 
lucida ;  a  magic  lantern,  for  which  he  is  endeavoring  to  paint 
glasses ;  in  a  word,  it  is  the  cabinet  of  a  man  of  man}'  accom- 
plishments, who  knows  a  little  of  every  thing,  and  does  nothing 
well. 

After  I  had  spent  some  time  in  his  apartment,  admiring  the 
ingenuity  of  his  small  inventions,  he  took  me  about  the  estab- 
lishment, to  visit  the  stables,  dog-kennel,  and  other  dependen- 
cies, in  which  he  appeared  like  a  general  visiting  the  different 
quarters  of  his  camp ;  as  the  Squire  leaves  the  control  of  all 
these  matters  to  him,  when  he  is  at  the  Hall.  He  inquired 
into  the  state  of  the  horses  ;  examined  their  feet ;  prescribed  a 
drench  for  one,  and  bleeding  for  another ;  and  then  took  me  to 
look  at  his  own  horse,  on  the  merits  of  which  he  dwelt  with 


14  BBACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

great  prolixity,  and  which,  I  noticed,  had  the  best  stall  in  the 
stable. 

After  this  I  was  taken  to  a  new  toy  of  his  and  the  Squire's, 
which  he  termed  the  falconry,  where  there  were  several  unhappy 
birds  in  durance,  completing  their  education.  Among  the  num- 
ber was  a  fine  .falcon,  which  Master  Simon  had  in  especial 
training,  and  he  told  me  that  he  would  show  me,  in  a  few  days, 
some  rare  sport  of  the  good  old-fashioned  kind.  In  the  course 
of  our  round,  I  noticed  that  the  grooms,  game-keeper,  whip- 
pers-in,  and  other  retainers,  seemed  all  to  be  on  somewhat  of  a 
familiar  footing  with  Master  Simon,  and  fond  of  having  a  joke 
with  him,  though  it  was  evident  they  had  great  deference  for 
his  opinion  in  matters  relating  to  their  functions. 

There  was  one  exception,  however,  in  a  testy  old  huntsman, 
as  hot  as  a  pepper-corn  ;  a  meagre,  wiry  old  fellow,  in  a  thread- 
bare velvet  jockey  cap,  and  a  pair  of  leather  breeches,  that, 
from  much  wear,  shone,  as  though  they  had  been  japanned. 
He  was  very  contradictory  and  pragmatical,  and  apt,  as  I 
thought,  to  differ  from  Master  Simon  now  and  then,  out  of 
mere  captiousness.  This  was  particularly  the  case  with  respect 
to  the  treatment  of  the  hawk,  which  the  old  man  seemed  to 
have  under  his  peculiar  care,  and,  according  to  Master  Simon, 
was  in  a  fair  way  to  ruin :  the  latter  had  a  vast  deal  to  say 
about  casting,  and  imping,  and  gleaming,  and  enseaming,  and 
giving  the  hawk  the  rangle,  which  I  saw  was  all  heathen 
Greek  to  old  Christy ;  but  he  maintained  his  point  notwith- 
standing, and  seemed  to  hold  all  this  technical  lore  in  utter 
disrespect. 

I  was  surprised  at  the  good-humor  with  which  Master 
Simon  bore  his  contradictions,  till  he  explained  the  matter  to 
me  afterwards.  Q^d  Christy  is  the  most  ancient  servant  in  the 
place,  having  lived  among  dogs  and  horses  the  greater  part  of 
a  century,  and  been  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Bracebridge's  father. 
He  knows  the  pedigree  of  every  horse  on  the  place,  and  has 
bestrode  the  great-great-grandsires  of  most  of  them.  He  can 
give  a  circumstantial  detail  of  every  fox-hunt  for  the  last  sixty 
or  seventy  years,  and  has  a  history  for  every  stag's  head  about 
the  house,  and  every  hunting  trophy  nailed  to  the  door  of  the 
dog-kennel. 

All  the  present  race  have  grown  up  under  his  eye,  and  humor 
him  in  his  old  age.  He  once  attended  the  Squire  to  Oxford, 
when  he  was  a  student  there,  and  enlightened  the  whole  univer- 
sity with  his  hunting  lore.  All  this  is  enough  to  make  the  old 
man  opinionated,  since  he  finds,  on  all  these  matters  of  first- 


THE  BUSY  MAN.  15 

rate  importance,  be  knows  more  than  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Indeed,  Master  Simon  had  been  his  pupil,  and  acknowledges 
that  he  derived  his  first  knowledge  in  hunting  from  the  instruc- 
tions of  Christy ;  and  I  much  question  whether  the  old  man 
does  not  still  look  upon  him  as  rather  a  greenhorn. 

On  our  return  homewards,  as  we  were  crossing  the  lawn  in 
front  of  the  house,  we  heard  the  porter's  bell  ring  at  the  lodge, 
and  shortly  afterwards,  a  kind  of  cavalcade  advanced  slowly 
up  the  avenue.  At  sight  of  it  my  companion  paused,  consid- 
ered it  for  a  moment,  and  then,  making  a  sudden  exclamation, 
hurried  away  to  meet  it.  As  it  approached,  I  discovered  a  fair, 
fresh-looking  elderly  lady,  dressed  in  an  old-fashioned  riding- 
habit,  with  a  broad-brimmed  white  beaver  hat,  such  as  may  be 
seen  in  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  paintings.  She  rode  a  sleek  white 
pony,  and  was  followed  by  a  footman  in  rich  livery,  mounted 
on  an  over-fed  hunter.  At  a  little  distance  in  the  rear  came  an 
ancient  cumbrous  chariot,  drawn  by  two  very  corpulent  horses. 
driven  by  as  corpulent  a  coachman,  beside  whom  sat  a  page 
dressed  in  a  fanciful  green  livery.  Inside  of  the  chariot  was 
a  starched  prim  personage,  with  a  look  somewhat  between  a 
lady's  companion  and  a  lady's  maid  ;  and  two  pampered  curs, 
that  showed  their  ugly  faces,  and  barked  out  of  each  window. 

There  was  a  general  turning  out  of  the  garrison,  to  receive 
this  new  comer.  The  Squire  assisted  her  to  alight,  and  saluted 
her  affectionately ;  the  fair  Julia  flew  into  her  arms,  and  they 
embraced  with  the  romantic  fervor  of  boarding-school  friends  : 
she  was  escorted  into  the  house  by  Julia's  lover,  towards  whom 
she  showed  distinguished  favor ;  and  a  line  of  the  old  servants, 
who  had  collected  in  the  Hall,  bowed  most  profoundly  as  she 
passed. 

I  observed  that  Master  Simon  was  most  assiduous  and  devout 
in  his  attentions  upon  this  old  lady.  He  walked  by  the  side 
of  her  pony,  up  the  avenue ;  and,  while  she  was  receiving  the 
salutations  of  the  rest  of  the  family,  he  took  occasion  to  notice 
tne  fat  coachman  ;  to  pat  the  sleek  carriage  horses,  and,  above 
all,  to  say  a  civil  word  to  my  lady's  gentlewoman,  the  prim, 
sour-looking  vestal  in  the  chariot. 

I  had  no  more  of  his  company  for  the  rest  of  the  morning. 
He  was  swept  off  in  the  vortex  that  followed  in  the,  wake  of 
this  lady.  Once  indeed  he  paused  for  a  moment,  as  he  was 
hurrying  on  some  errand  of  the  good  lady's,  to  let  me  know 
that  this  was  Lady  Lillycraft,  a  sister  of  the  Squire's,  of  large 
fortune,  which"  the  captain  would  inherit,  and  that  her  estate 
lay  in  one  of  the  best  sporting  counties  in  all  England. 


16  BEACEBR1UGE    HALL. 


FAMILY  SERVANTS. 

Verily  old  servants  are  the  vouchers  of  worthy  housekeeping.  They  are  like  ratt  In 
a  mansion,  or  mites  in  a  cheese,  bespeaking  the  antiquity  and  fatness  of  their  abode. 

IN  my  casual  anecdotes  of  the  Hall,  I  may  often  be  tempted 
to  dwell  upon  circumstances  of  a  trite  and  ordinary  nature,  from 
their  appearing  to  me  illustrative  of  genuine  national  character. 
It  seems  to  me  to  be  the  study  of  the  Squire  to  adhere,  as  much 
as  possible,  to  what  he  considers  the  old  landmarks  of  English 
manners.  His  servants  all  understand  his  ways,  and  for  the 
most  part  have  been  accustomed  to  them  from  infancy ;  so  that, 
upon  the  whole,  his  household  presents  one  of  the  few  tolerable 
specimens  that  can  now  be  met  with,  of  the  establishment  of 
an  English  country  gentleman  of  the  old  school. 

By  the  by,  the  servants  are  not  the  least  characteristic  part 
of  the  household  :  the  -housekeeper,  for  instance,  has  been  born 
and  brought  up  at  the  Hall,  and  has  never  been  twenty  miles 
from  it ;  yet  she  has  a  stately  air,  that  would  not  disgrace  a 
lady  that  had  figured  at  the  court  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

I  am  half  inclined  to  think  she  has  caught  it  from  living 
so  much  among  the  old  family  pictures.  It  may,  however,  be 
owing  to  a  consciousness  of  her  importance  in  the  sphere  in 
which  she  has  always  moved;  for  she  is  greatly  respected  in 
the  neighboring  village,  and  among  the  farmers'  wives,  and  has 
high  authority  in  the  household,  ruling  over  the  servants  with 
quiet,  but  undisputed  sway. 

She  is  a  thin  old  lady,  with  blue  eyes  and  pointed  nose  and 
chin.  Her  dress  is  always  the  same  as  to  fashion.  She  wears 
a  small,  well-starched  ruff,  a  laced  stomacher,  full  petticoats, 
and  a  gown  festooned  and  open  in  front,  which  on  particular 
occasions,  is  of  ancient  silk,  the  legacy  of  some  former  dame  of 
the  family,  or  an  inheritance  from  her  mother,  who  was  house- 
keeper before  her.  I  have  a  reverence  for  these  old  garments, 
as  I  make  no  doubt  they  have  figured  about  these  apartments 
in  days  long  past,  when  they  have  set  off  the  charms  of  some 
peerless  family  beauty ;  and  I  have  sometimes  looked  from  the 
old  housekeeper  to  the  neighboring  portraits,  to  see  whether  I 
could  not  recognize  her  antiquated  brocade  in  the  dress  of 
some  one  of  those  long-waisted  dames  that  smile  on  me  from 
the  walls. 

Her  hair,  which  is  quite  white,  is  frizzed  out  in  front,  and 


FAMILY    SERVANTS.  17 

she  wears  over  it  a  small  cap,  nicely  plaited,  and  brought  down 
under  the  chin.  Her  manners  are  simple  and  primitive,  height- 
ened a  little  by  a  proper  dignity  of  station. 

The  Hall  is  her  world,  and  the  hjstpry  of  the  family  the  only 
history  she  knows,  excepting  that  which  she  has  read  in  the 
Bible.  She  can  give  a  biography  of  every  portrait  in  the 
picture  gallery,  and  is  a  complete  family  chronicle. 

She  is  treated  with  great  consideration  by  the  Squire.  In- 
deed, Master  Simon  tells  me  that  there  is  a  traditional  anecdote 
current  among  the  servants,  of  the  Squire's  having  been  seen 
kissing  her  in  the  picture  gallery,  when  they  were  both  young. 
As,  however,  nothing  further  was  ever  noticed  between  them, 
the  circumstance  caused  no  great  scandal ;  only  she  was  ob- 
served to  take  to  reading  Pamela  shortly  afterwards,  and  refused 
the  hand  of  the  village  inn-keeper,  whom  she  had  previously 
smiled  on. 

The  old  bjatler,  who  was  formerly  a  footman,  and  a  rejected 
admirer  of  hers,  used  to  tell  the  anecdote  now  and  then,  at  those 
little  cabals  which  will  occasionally  take  place  among  the  most 
orderly  servants,  arising  from  the  common  propensity  of  the 
governed  to  talk  against  administration ;  but  he  has  left  it  off, 
of  late  years,  since  he  has  risen  into  place,  and  shakes  his  head 
rebukingly  when  it  is  mentioned. 

It  is  certain  that  the  old  lady  will,  to  this  day,  dwell  upon  the 
looks  of  the  Squire  when  he  was  a  young  man  at  college ;  and 
she  maintains  that  none  of  his  sons  can  compare  with  their 
father  when  he  was  of  their  age,  and  vras  dressed  out  in  his 
full  suit  of  scarlet,  with  his  hair  craped  and  powdered,  and  his 
three-cornered  hat. 

She  has  an  orphan  niece,  a  pretty,  soft-hearted  baggage, 
named  Ekcebe  Wilkins,  who  has  been  transplanted  to  the  Hall 
within  a  year  or  two,  and  been  nearly  spoiled  for  any  condition 
of  life.  She  is  a  kind  of  attendant  and  companion  of  the  fair 
Julia's  ;  and  from  loitering  about  the  young  lady's  apartments, 
reading  scraps  of  novels,  and  inheriting  second-hand  finery,  has 
become  something  between  a  waiting-maid  and  a  slipshod  fine 
lady. 

She  is  considered  a  kind  of  heiress  among  the  servants,  as 
she  will  inherit  all  her  aunt's  property  ;  which,  if  report  be  true, 
must  be  a  round  sum  of  good  golden  guineas,  the  accumulated 
wealth  of  two  housekeepers'  savings  ;  not  to  mention  the  heredi- 
tary ward-robe,  and  the  many  little  valuables  and  knick-knacks, 
treasured  up  in  the  housekeepers'  room.  Indeed,  the  old 
housekeeper  has  the  reputation  among  the  servants  and  the 


18  SBACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

villagers,  of  being  passing  rich ;  and  there  is  a  japanned  chest 
of  drawers,  and  a  large  iron-bound  coffer  in  her  room,  which  are 
supposed,  by  the  housemaids,  to  hold  treasures  of  wealth. 

The  old  lady  is  a  great  friend  of  Master  Simon,  who,  indeed, 
pays  a  little  court  to  her,  as  to  a  person  high  in  authority  ;  and 
they  have  many  discussions  on  points  of  family  history,  in 
which,  notwithstanding  his  extensive  information,  and  pride  of 
knowledge,  he  commonly  admits  her  superior  accuracy.  He 
seldom  returns  to  the  Hall  after  one  of  his  visits  to  the  other 
branches  of  the  family,  without  bringing  Mrs.  Wilkins  some 
remembrance  from  the  ladies  of  the  house  where  he  has  been 
staying. 

Indeed,  all  the  children  of  the  house  look  up  to  the  old  lady 
with  habitual  respect  and  attachment,  and  she  seems  almost  to 
consider  them  as  her  own,  from  their  having  grown  up  under 
her  eye.  The  Gttonian,  however,  is  her  favorite,  probably  from 
being  the  youngest,  though  he  is  the  most  mischievous,  and  has 
been  apt  to  play  tricks  upon  her  from  boyhood. 

I  cannot  help  mentioning  one  little  ceremony,  which,  I  be- 
lieve, is  peculiar  to  the  Hall.  After  the  cloth  is  removed  at 
dinner,  the  old  housekeeper  sails  into  the  room  and  stands  be- 
hind the  Squire's  chair,  when  he  fills  her  a  glass  of  wine  with 
his  own  hands,  in  which  she  drinks  the  health  of  the  company 
in  a  truly  respectful  yet  dignified  manner,  and  then  retires. 
The  Squire  received  the  custom  from  his  father,  and  has  always 
continued  it. 

There  is  a  peculiar  character  about  the  servants  of  old  Eng- 
lish families  that  reside  principally  in  the  country.  They  have 
a  quiet,  orderly,  respectful  mode  of  doing  their  duties.  They 
are  always  neat  in  their  persons,  and  appropriately,  and  if  I 
may  use  the  phrase,  technically  dressed ;  they  move  about  the 
house  without  hurry  or  noise ;  there  is  nothing  of  the  bustle  of 
employment,  or  the  voice  of  command  ;  nothing  of  that  obtrusive 
housewifery  which  amounts  to  a  torment.  You  are  not  perse- 
cuted by  the  process  of  making  you  comfortable;  yet  every 
thing  is  done,  and  is  done  well.  The  work  of  the  house  is  per- 
formed as  if  by  magic,  but  it  is  the  magic  of  system.  Nothing 
is  done  by  fits  and  starts,  nor  at  awkward  seasons  ;  the  whole 
goes  on  like  well-oiled  clock-work,  where  there  is  no  noise  nor 
jarring  in  its  operations. 

English  servants,  in  general,  are  not  treated  with  great  in- 
dulgence, nor  rewarded  by  many  commendations ;  for  the  Eng- 
lish are  laconic  and  reserved  toward  their  domestics ;  but  an 
approving  nod  and  a  kind  word  from  master  or  mistress,  goes 


FAMILY  SERVANTS.  19 

as  far  here,  as  an  excess  of  praise  or  indulgence  elsewhere. 
Neither  do  servants  often  exhibit  any  animated  marks  of  affec- 
tion to  their  employers ;  yet,  though  quiet,  they  are  strong  in 
their  attachments ;  and  the  reciprocal  regard  of  masters  and 
servants,  though  not  ardently  expressed,  is  powerful  and  last- 
ing in  old  English  families. 

The  title  of  "an  old  family  servant"  carries  with  it  a  thou- 
sand kind  associations,  in  all  parts  of  the  world ;  and  there  is 
no  claim  upon  the  home-bred  charities  of  the  heart  more  irre- 
sistible than  that  of  having  been  "  born  ia  the  house."  It  is 
common  to  see  gray-headed  domestics  of  this  kind  attached 
to  an  English  family  of  the  "  old  school,"  who  continue  in  it  to 
the  day  of  their  death,  in  the  enjoyment  of  steady,  unaffected 
kindness,  and  the  performance  of  faithful,  unofficious  duty.  I 
think  such  instances  of  attachment  speak  well  for  both  master 
and  servant,  and  the  frequency  of  them  speaks  well  for  national 
character. 

These  observations,  however,  hold  good  only  with  families  of 
the  description  I  have  mentioned ;  and  with  such  as  are  some- 
what retired,  and  pass  the  greater  part  of  their  time  in  the 
country.  As  to  the  powdered  menials  that  throng  the  halls  of 
fashionable  town  residences,  they  equally  reflect  the  character 
of  the  establishments  to  which  they  belong;  and  I  know  no 
more  complete  epitome  of  dissolute  heartlessness  and  pampered 
inutility. 

But,  the  good  "old  family  servant!"  —  the  one  who  has 
always  been  linked,  in  idea,  with  the  home  of  our  heart ;  who 
has  led  us  to  school  in  the  days  of  prattling  childhood  ;  who  has 
been  the  confidant  of  our  boyish  cares,  and  schemes,  and  enter- 
prises ;  who  has  hailed  us  as  we  came  home  at  vacations,  and 
been  the  promoter  of  all  our  holiday  sports  ;  who,  when  we,  in 
wandering  manhood,  have  left  the  paternal  roof ,  and  only  return 
thither  at  intervals  —  will  welcome  us  with  a  joy  inferior  only  to 
that  of  our  parents  ;  who,  now  grown  gray  and  infirm  with  age, 
still  totters  about  the  house  of  our  fathers,  in  fond  and  faithful 
servitude  ;  who  claims  us,  in  a  manner,  as  his  own  ;  and  hastens 
with  querulous  eagerness  to  anticipate  his  fellow-domestics  in 
waiting  upon  us  at  table ;  and  who,  when  we  retire  at  night  to 
the  chamber  that  still  goes  by  our  name,  will  linger  about  the 
room  to  have  one  more  kind  look,  and  one  more  pleasant  word 
about  times  that  are  past  —  who  does  not  experience  towards 
such  a  being  a  feeling  of  almost  filial  affection? 

I  have  met  with  several  instances  of  epitaphs  on  the  grave- 
stones of  such  valuable  domestics,  recorded  with  the  simple  truth 


20  BRACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

of  natural  feeling.  I  have  two  before  me  at  this  moment ;  on* 
copied  from  a  tombstone  of  a  church-yard  in  Warwickshire : 

"  Here  lieth  the  body  of  Joseph  Batte,  confidential  servant 
to  George  Birch,  Esq.,  of  Hamstead  Hall.  His  grateful  friend 
and  master  caused  this  inscription  to  be  written  in  memory  of 
his  discretion,  fidelity,  diligence,  and  continence.  He  died  (a 
bachelor)  aged  84,  having  lived  44  years  in  the  same  family." 

The  other  was  taken  from  a  tombstone  in  Eltham  church-yard  : 

"  Here  lie  the  remains  of  Mr.  James  Tappy,  who  departed 
this  life  on  the  8th  of  September,  1818,  aged  84,  after  a  faithful 
service  of  60  years  in  one  family ;  by  each  individual  of  which 
he  lived  respected,  and  died  lamented  by  the  sole  survivor." 

Few  monuments,  even  of  the  illustrious,  have  given  me  the 
glow  about  the  heart  that  I  felt  while  copying  this  honest  epi- 
taph in  the  churchyard  of  Eltham.  I  sympathized  with  this 
"sole  survivor"  of  a  family  mourning  over  the  grave  of  the 
faithful  follower  of  his  race,  who  had  been,  no  doubt,  a  living 
memento  of  times  and  friends  that  had  passed  away ;  and  in 
considering  this  record  of  long  and  devoted  service,  I  called  to 
mind  the  touching  speech  of  Old  Adam,  in  "As  You  Like  It," 
when  tottering  after  the  youthful  son  of  his  ancient  master : 

"  Master,  go  on,  and  I  will  follow  thee 
To  the  last  gasp,  with  love  and  loyalty!  " 

NOTE.  —  I  cannot  but  mention  a  tablet  which  I  have  seen  somewhere  in  the  chapel 
of  "Windsor  Castle,  put  up  by  the  late  king  to  the  memory  of  a  family  servant,  who  had 
been  a  faithful  attendant  of  his  lamented  daughter,  the  Princess  Amelia.  George  III. 
possessed  much  of  the  strong  domestic  feeling  of  the  old  English  country  gentleman; 
and  it  is  an  incident  curious  in  monumental  history,  and  creditable  to  the  human  heart, 
a  monarch  erecting  a  monument  in  honor  of  the  humble  virtues  of  a  meuial. 


THE  WIDOW. 

She  was  BO  charitable  and  pitious 

She  would  weep  if  that  she  saw  a  mous 

Caught  in  a  trap,  if  it  were  dead  or  bled : 

Of  small  hounds  had  she,  that  she  fed 

With  rost  flesh,  milke,  and  wastel  bread, 

But  sore  wept  she  if  any  of  them  were  dead, 

Or  if  man  emote  them  with  a  yard  smart.  —  CHAUCER. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  whimsical  parade  made  by  Lady  Lilly- 
craft  on  her  arrival,  she  has  none  of  the  petty  stateliness 
that  I  had  imagined ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  a  degree  of  nature 


THE   WIDOW.  21 

and  simple-heartedness,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  that  mingles 
well  with  her  old-fashioned  manners  and  harmless  ostentation. 
She  dresses  in  rich  silks,  with  long  waist ;  she  rouges  consider- 
abl}',  and  her  hair,  which  is  nearly  white,  is  frizzed  out,  and 
put  up  with  pins.  Her  face  is  pitted  with  the  small-pox,  but 
the  delicacy  of  her  features  shows  that  she  may  once  have  been 
beautiful ;  and  she  has  a  very  fair  and  well-shaped  hand  and 
arm,  of  which, if  I  mistake  not,  the  good  lady  is  still  a  little  vain. 

I  have  had  the  curiosity  to  gather  a  few  particulars  concern- 
ing her.  She  was  a  great  belle  in  town,  between  thirty  and 
forty  years  since,  and  reigned  for  two  seasons  with  all  the  inso- 
lence of  beauty,  refusing  several  excellent  offers ;  when,  un- 
fortunately, she  was  robbed  of  her  charms  and  her  lovers  by 
an  attack  of  the  small-pox.  She  retired  immediately  into  the 
country,  where  she  sometime  after  inherited  an  estate,  and 
married  a  baronet,  a  former  admirer,  whose  passion  had  sud- 
denly revived  ;  "  having,"  as  he  said,  "  always  loved  her  mind 
rather  than  her  person." 

The  baronet  did  not  enjoy  her  mind  and  fortune  above  six 
months,  and  had  scarcely  grown  very  tired  of  her,  when  he 
broke  his  neck  in  a  fox-chase,  and  left  her  free,  rich,  and  dis- 
consolate. She  has  remained  on  her  estate  in  the  country  ever 
since,  and  has  never  shown  any  desire  to  return  to  town,  and 
revisit  the  scene  of  her  early  triumphs  and  fatal  malady.  All 
her  favorite  recollections,  however,  revert  to  that  short  period 
of  her  youthful  beauty.  She  has  no  idea  of  town  but  as  it  was 
at  that  time  ;  and  continually  forgets  that  the  place  and  people 
must  have  changed  materially  in  the  course  of  nearly  half  a 
century.  She  will  often  speak  of  the  toasts  of  those  days  as  it 
still  reigning ;  and,  until  very  recently,  used  to  talk  with  delight 
of  the  ntyal  family,  and  the  beauty  of  the  young  princes  and 
princesses.  She  cannot  be  brought  to  think  of  the  present  king 
otherwise  than  as  an  elegant  young  man,  rather  wild,  but  who 
danced  a  minuet  divinely ;  and  before  he  came  to  the  crown, 
would  often  mention  him  as  the  "  sweet  young  prince." 

She  talks  also  of  the  walks  in  Kensington  Garden,  where  the 
gentlemen  appeared  in  gold-laced  coats,  and  cocked  hats,  and 
the  ladies  in  hoops,  and  swept  so  proudly  along  the  grassy 
avenues ;  and  she  thinks  the  ladies  let  themselves  sadly  down 
in  then*  dignity,  when  they  gave  up  cushioned  head-dresses, 
and  high-heeled  shoes.  She  has  much  to  say  too  of  the  officers 
who  were  in  the  train  of  her  admirers ;  and  speaks  familiarly 
of  many  wild  young  blades,  that  are  now,  perhaps,  hobbling 
about  watering-places  with  crutches  and  gouty  shoes. 


22  BRACEBKIDGE  BALL. 

Whether  the  taste  the  good  lady  had  of  matrimony  discour- 
aged her  or  not,  I  cannot  say  ;  but  though  her  merits  and  her 
riches  have  attracted  many  suitors,  she  has  never  been  tempted 
to  venture  again  into  the  happy  state.  This  is  singular,  too, 
for  she  seems  of  a  most  soft  and  susceptible  heart ;  is  always 
talking  of  love  and  connubial  felicity,  and  is  a  great  stickler  for 
old-fashioned  gallantry,  devoted  attentions,  .and  eternal  con- 
stancy, on  the  part  of  the  gentlemen.  She  lives,  however,  after 
her  own  taste.  Her  house,  I  am  told,  must  have  been  built  and 
furnished  about  the  time  of  Sir  Charles  Graudison :  every  thing 
about  it  is  somewhat  formal  and  stately ;  but  has  been  softened 
down  into  a  degree  of  voluptuousness,  characteristic  of  an  old 
lady,  very  tender-hearted  and  romantic,  and  who  loves  her 
ease.  The  cushions  of  the  great  arm-chairs,  and  wide  sofas, 
almost  bury  you  when  you  sit  down  on  them.  Flowers  of  the 
most  rare  and  delicate  kind  are  placed  about  the  rooms,  and  on 
little  japanned  stands ;  and  sweet  bags  lie  about  the  tables  and 
mantel-pieces.  The  house  is  full  of  pet  dogs,  Angora  cats,  and 
singing  birds,  who  are  as  carefully  waited  upon  as  she  is  her- 
self. 

She  is  dainty  in  her  living,  and  a  little  of  an  epicure,  living 
on  white  meats,  and  little  lady-like  dishes,  though  her  servants 
have  substantial  old  English  fare,  as  their  looks  bear  witness. 
Indeed,  they  are  so  indulged,  that  they  are  all  spoiled ;  and 
when  they  lose  their  present  place,  they  will  be  fit  for  no  other. 
Her  ladyship  is  one  of  those  easy-tempered  beings  that  are 
always  doomed  to  be  much  liked,  but  ill  served  by  their  domes- 
tics, and  cheated  by  all  the  world. 

Much  of  her  time  is  passed  in  reading  novels,  of  which  she 
has  a  most  extensive  library,  and  has  a  constant  supply  from 
the  publishers  in  town.  Her  erudition  in  this  line  of  literature 
is  immense ;  she  has  kept  pace  with  the  press  for  half  a  cen- 
tury. Her  mind  is  stuffed  with  love-tales  of  all  kinds,  from  the 
stately  amours  of  the  old  books  of  chivalry,  down  to  the  last 
blue-covered  romance,  reeking  from  the  press ;  though  she  evi- 
dently gives  the  preference  to  those  that  came  out  in  the  days 
of  her  youth,  and  when  she  was  first  in  love.  She  maintains 
that  there  are  no  novels  written  now-a-days  equal  to  Pamela 
and  Sir  Charles  Grandison ;  and  she  places  the  Qastle  of 
Qtranto  at  the  head  of  all  romances. 

She  does  a  vast  deal  of  good  in  her  neighborhood,  and  is 
imposed  upon  by  every  beggar  in  the  county.  She  is  the  bene- 
factress of  a  village  adjoining  to  her  estate,  and  takes  an  especial 
interest  in  all  its  love-affairs.  She  knows  of  every  courtship 


TEE  LOVERS.  23 

that  is  going  on  ;  every  lovelorn  damsel  is  sure  to  find  a  patient 
listener  and  a  sage  adviser  in  her  ladyship.  She  takes  great 
pains  to  reconcile  all  love-quarrels,  and  should  any  faithless 
swain  persist  in  his  inconstancy,  he  is  sure  to  draw  on  himself 
the  good  lady's  violent  indignation. 

I  have  learned  these  particulars  partly  from  Frank  Brace- 
bridge,  and  partly  from  Master  Simon.  I  am  now  able  to 
account  for  the  assiduous  attention  of  the  latter  to  her  lady- 
ship. Her  house  is  one  of  his  favorite  resorts,  where  he  is  a 
very  important  personage.  He  makes  her  a  visit  of  business 
once  a  year,  when  he  looks  into  all  her  affairs  ;  which,  as  she  is 
no  manager,  are  apt  to  get  into  confusion.  He  examines  the 
books  of  the  overseer,  and  shoots  about  the  estate,  which,  he 
says,  is  well  stocked  with  game,  notwithstanding  that  it  is 
poached  by  all  the  vagabonds  in  the  neighborhood. 

It  is  thought,  as  I  before  hinted,  that  the  oap_iain  will  inherit 
the  greater  part  of  her  property,  having  always  been  her  chief 
favorite  ;  for,  in  fact,  she  is  partial  to  a  red  coat.  She  has  now 
come  to  the  Hall  to  be  present  at  his  nuptials,  having  a  great 
disposition  to  interest  herself  in  all  matters  of  love  and  matri- 
mony. 


THE  LOVERS. 

Rise  np,  my  love,  my  fair  one,  and  come  away;  for,  lo,  the  winter  Is  past,  the  rain 
is  over  and  gone;  the  flowers  appear  on  the  earth;  the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  is 
come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  the  land.  — SONG  OF  SOLOMON. 


To  a  man  who  is  a  little  of  a  philosopher,  and  a  bachelor  to 
boot ;  and  who,  by  dint  of  some  experience  in  the  follies  of  life 
begins  to  look  with  a  learned  eye  upon  the  ways  of  maa,-and 
eke  of  woman  ;/to  such  a  man7~in5ay7  there  is  something  very 
entertaining  in  noticing  the  conduct  of  a  pair  of  young  lovers. 
It  may  not  be  as  grave  and  scientific  a  study  as  the  loves  of 
the  plants,  but  it  is  certainly  as  interesting. 

I  have,  therefore,  derived  much  pleasure,  since  my  arrival  at 
the  Hall,  from  observing  the  fair  Julia  and  her  lover.  She 
has  all  the  delightful,  blushing  consciousness  of  an  artless  girl, 
inexperienced  in  coquetry,  who  has  made  her  first  conquest ; 
while  the  captain  regards  her  with  that  mixture  of  fondness  and 
exultation  with  which  a  youthful  lover  is  apt  to  contemplate  so 
beauteous  a  prize. 

I  observed  them  yesterday  in  the  garden,  advancing  along 


>rto\ 
life,  \ 
and 


24  BEACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

one  of  the  retired  walks.  The  sun  was  shining  with  delicious 
-warmth,  making  great  masses  of  bright  verdure,  and  deep  blue 
shade.  The  cuckoo,  that  "harbinger  of  spring,"  was  faintly 
heard  from  a  distance ;  the  thrush  piped  from  the  hawthorn  ; 
and  the  yellow  butterflies  sported,  and  toyed,  and  coquetted  in 
the  air. 

The  fair  Julia  was  leaning  on  her  lover's  arm,  listening  to 
his  conversation,  with  her  eyes  cast  down,  a  soft  blush  on  her 
cheek,  and  a  quiet  smile  on  her  lips,  while  in  the  hand  that 
hung  negligently  by  her  side  was  a  bunch  of  flowers.  In  this 
way  they  were  sauntering  slowly  along ;  and  when  I  considered 
them  and  the  scene  in  which  they  were  moving,"!  could  not  but 
think  iTa  thousand  pities  that  the  season  should  ever  change, 
or  that  young  people  should  ever  grow  older,  or  that  blossoms 
should  give  way  to  fruit,  or  that  lovers  should  ever  get  married. 

.prom  what  I  have  gathered  of  family  anecdote,  I  understand 

it  the  fair  Julia  is  the  daughter  of  a  favorite  college  friend 
of  the  Squire ;  who,  after  leaving  Oxford,  had  entered  the 
arary,  and  served  for  many  years  in  India,  where  he  was  mor- 
tally wounded  in  a  skirmish  with  the  natives.  In  his  last  mo- 
ments he  had,  with  a  faltering  pen,  recommended  his  wife  and 
daughter  to  the  kindness  of  his  early  friend. 

The  widow  and  her  child  returned  to  England  helpless  and 
almost  hopeless.  When  Mr.  Bracebridge  received  accounts  of 
their  situation,  he  hastened  to  their  relief.  He  reached  them 
just  in  time  to  sooth  the  last  moments  of  the  mother,  who  was 
dying  of  a  consumption,  and  to  make  her  happy  in  the  assur- 
ance that  her  child  should  never  want  a  protector. 

The  good  Squire  returned  with  his  prattling  charge  to  his 
stronghold,  where  he  has  brought  her  up  with  a  tenderness 
truly  paternal.  As  he  has  taken  some  pains  to  superintend  her 
education,  and  form  her  taste,  she  has  grown  up  with  many  of 
his  notions,  and  considers  him  the  wisest,  as  well  as  the  best  of 
men.  Much  of  her  time,  too,  has  been  passed  with  Lad}'  Lilly- 
craft,  who  has  instructed  her  in  the  manners  of  the  old  school, 
and  enriched  her  mind  with  all  kinds  of  novels  and  romances. 
Indeed,  her  ladyship  has  had  a  great  hand  in  promoting  the 
match  between  Julia  and  the  captain,  having  had  them  together 
at  her  country-seat,  the  moment  she  found  there  was  an  attach- 
ment growing  up  between  them  ;  the  good  lady  being  never  so 
happy  as  when  she  has  a  pair  of  turtles  cooing  about  her. 

I  have  been  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which  thet  J 
Julia  is  regarded  by  the  old  servants  at  tire  Hall.    She  hi 
a  pet  with  them  from  childhood,  and  every  one  seems  to  lay 


THE    LOVERS.  25 

some  claim  to  her  education ;  so  that  it  is  no  wonder  she 
should  be  extremely  accomplished.  The  gardener  taught  her  to 
rear  flowers,  of  which  she  is  extremely  fond.  Old  Christy,  the 
pragmatical  huntsman,  softens  when  she  approaches ;  and  as 
she  sits  lightly  and  gracefully  in  her  saddle,  claims  the  merit  of 
having  taught  her  to  ride ;  while  the  housekeeper,  who  almost 
looks  upon  her  as  a  daughter,  intimates  that  she  first  gave  her 
an  insight  into  the  masteries  of  the  toilet,  having  been  dressing- 
maid,  in  her  young  days,  to  the  late  Mrs.  Bracebridge.  I  am 
inclined  to  credit  this  last  claim,  as  I  have  noticed  that  the  dress 
of  the  young  lady  had  an  air  of  the  old  school,  though  managed 
with  native  taste,  and  that  her  hair  was  put  up  very  much  in 
the  style  of  Sir  Peter  Lely's  portraits  in  the  picture  gallery. 

Her  very  musical  attainments  partake  of  this  old-fashioned 
character,  and  most  of  her  songs  are  such  as  are  not  at  the 
present  day  to  be  found  on  the  piano  of  a  modern  performer. 
I  have,  however,  seen  so  much  of  modern  fashions,  modern  ac- 
complishments, and  modern  fine  ladies,  that  I  relish  this  tinge 
of  antiquated  style  in  so  }'oung  and  lovely  a  girl ;  and  I  have 
had  as  much  pleasure  in  hearing  her  warble  one  of  the  old  songs 
of  Herrick,  or  Carew,  or  Suckling,  adapted  to  some  simple  old 
melody,  as  from  listening  to  a  lady  amateur  skylark  it  up 
and  down  through  the  finest  bravura  of  Rossini  or  Mozart. 

We  have  very  pretty  music  in  the  evenings,  occasionally, 
between  her  and  the  captain,  assisted  sometimes  by  Master 
Simon,  who  scrapes,  dubiously,  on  his  violin  ;  being  very  apt 
to  get  out,  and  to  halt  a  note  or  two  in  the  rear.  Sometimes 
he  even  thrums  a  little  on  the  piano,  and  takes  a  part  in  a  trio, 
in  which  his  voice  can  generally  be  distinguished  by  a  certain 
quavering  tone,  and  an  occasional  false  note. 

I  was  praising  the  fair  Julia's  performance  to  him,  after  one 
of  her  songs,  when  I  found  he  took  to  himself  the  whole  credit 
of  having  formed  her  musical  taste,  assuring  me  that  she  was 
very  apt ;  and,  indeed,  summing  up  her  whole  character  in  his 
knowing  way,  by  adding,  that  "  she  was  a  very  nice  girl,  and 
had  no  nonsense  about  her." 


BEACEBEIDGE 


FAMILY  RELICS. 

My  Infellce's  face,  her  brow,  bar  eye, 

The  dimple  on  her  cheek :  and  such  sweet  skill 

Hath  from  the  cunning  workman's  pencil  flown, 

These  lips  look  fresh  and  lively  as  her  own. 

False  colors  last  after  the  true  be  dead. 

Of  all  the  roses  grafted  on  her  cheeks, 

Of  all  the  graces  dancing  in  her  eyes, 

Of  all  the  music  set  upon  her  tongue, 

Of  all  that  was  past  woman's  excellence 

In  her  white  bosom ;  look,  a  painted  board 

Circumscribes  all !  —  DEKKBB. 

AN  old  English  family  mansion  is  a  fertile  subject  for  study. 
It  abounds  with  illustrations  of  former  times,  and  traces  of  the 
tastes,  and  humors,  and  manners  of  successive  generations. 
The  alterations  and  additions,  in  different  styles  of  architecture ; 
the  furniture,  plate,  pictures,  hangings ;  the  warlike  and  sport- 
ing implements  of  different  ages  and  fancies ;  all  furnish  food 
for  curious  and  amusing  speculation.  As  the  Squire  is  very 
careful  in  collecting  and  preserving  all  family  relics,  the  Hall 
is  full  of  remembrances  of  the  kind.  In  looking  about  the  es- 
tablishment, I  can  picture  to  myself  the  characters  and  habits 
that  have  prevailed  at  different  eras  of  the  family  history.  I 
have  mentioned,  on  a  former  occasion,  the  armor  of  the  cru- 
sader which  hangs  up  in  the  Hall.  There  are  also  several  jack- 
boots, with  enormously  thick  soles  and  high  heels,  which  belonged 
to  a  set  of  cavaliers,  who  filled  the  Hall  with  the  din  and  stir  of 
arms  during  the  time  of  the  Covenanters.  A  number  of  enor- 
mous drinking  vessels  of  antique  fashion,  with  huge  Venice 
glasses,  and  green-hock-glasses,  with  the  apostles  in  relief  on 
them,  remain  as  monuments  of  a  generation  or  two  of  hard 
livers,  who  led  a  life  of  roaring  revelry,  and  first  introduced  the 
gout  into  the  family. 

I  shall  pass  over  several  more  such  indications  of  temporary 
tastes  of  the  Squire's  predecessors;  but  I  cannot  forbear  to 
notice  a  pair  of  antlers  in  the  great  hall,  which  is  one  of  the 
trophies  of  a  hard-riding  squire  of  former  times,  who  was  the 
Nimrod  of  these  parts.  There  are  many  traditions  of  his  won- 
derful feats  in  hunting  still  existing,  which  are  related  by  old 
Christy,  the  huntsman,  who  gets  exceedingly  nettled  if  they 
are  in  the  least  doubted.  Indeed,  there  is  a  frightful  chasm, 
a  few  miles  from  the  Hall,  which  goes  by  the  name  of  the 


FAMILY  BELIQUES.  27 

Squire's  Leap,  from  his  having  cleared  it  in  the  ardor  of  the 
chase  ;  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact,  for  old  Christy  shows 
the  very  dints  of  the  horse's  hoofs  on  the  rocks  on  each  side 
of  the  chasm. 

Master  Simon  holds  the  memory  of  this  squire  in  great  ven- 
eration, and  has  a  number  of  extraordinary  stories  to  tell  con- 
cerning him,  which  he  repeats  at  all  hunting  dinners ;  and  I  am 
told  that  they  wax  more  and  more  marvellous  the  older  they 
grow.  He  has  also  a  pair  of  Rippon  spurs  which  belonged  to 
this  mighty  hunter  of  yore,  and  which  he  only  wears  on  par- 
ticular occasions. 

The  place,  however,  which  abounds  most  with  mementos  of 
past  times,  is  the  picture  gallery;  and  there  is  something 
strangely  pleasing,  though  melancholy,  in  considering  the  long 
rows  of  portraits  which  compose  the  greater  part  of  the  collec- 
tion. They  furnish  a  kind  of  narrative  of  the  lives  of  the 
family  worthies,  which  I  am  enabled  to  read  with  the  assistance 
of  the  venerable  housekeeper,  who  is  the  family  chronicler, 
prompted  occasionally  by  Master  Simon.  There  is  the  progress 
of  a  fine  lady,  for  instance,  through  a  variety  of  portraits.  One 
represents  her  as  a  little  girl,  with  a  long  waist  and  hoop,  hold- 
ing a  kitten  in  her  arms,  and  ogling  the  spectator  out  of  the 
corners  of  her  eyes,  as  if  she  could  not  turn  her  head.  In  an- 
other, we  find  her  in  the  freshness  of  youthful  beauty,  when  she 
was  a  celebrated  belle,  and  so  hard-hearted  as  to  cause  several 
unfortunate  gentlemen  to  run  desperate  and  write  bad  poetry. 
In  another,  she  is  depicted  as  a  stately  dame,  in  the  maturity 
of  her  charms ;  next  to  the  portrait  of  her  husband,  a  gallant 
colonel  in  full-bottomed  wig  and  gold-laced  hat,  who  was  killed 
abroad ;  and,  finally,  her  monument  is  in  the  church,  the  spire 
of  which  may  be  seen  from  the  window,  where  her  effigy  is 
carved  in  marble,  and  represents  her  as  a  venerable  dame  of 
seventy-six. 

In  like  manner,  I  have  followed  some  of  the  family  great 
men  through  a  series  of  pictures,  from  early  boyhood  to  the 
robe  of  dignity,  or  truncheon  of  command ;  and  so  on  by  de- 
grees, until  they  were  garnered  up  in  the  common  repository, 
the  neighboring  church. 

There  is  one  group  that  particularly  interested  me.  It  con- 
sisted of  four  sisters,  of  nearly  the  same  age,  who  flourished 
about  a  century  since,  and,  if  I  may  judge  from  their  portraits, 
were  extremely  beautiful.  I  can  imagine  what  a  scene  of  gay- 
ety  and  romance  this  old  mansion  must  have  been,  when  they 
were  in  the  heyday  of  their  charms ;  when  they  passed  like 


28  SRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

beautiful  visions  through  its  halls,  or  stepped  daintily  to  music 
in  the  revels  and  dances  of  the  cedar  gallery ;  or  printed,  with 
delicate  feet,  the  velvet  verdure  of  these  lawns.  How  must 
they  have  been  looked  up  to  with  mingled  love,  and  pride,  and 
reverence  by  the  old  family  servants ;  and  followed  with  almost 
painful  admiration  by  the  aching  eyes  of  rival  admirers !  How 
must  melody,  and  song,  and  tender  serenade,  have  breathed 
about  these  courts,  and  their  echoes  whispered  to  the  loitering 
tread  of  lovers !  How  must  these  very  turrets  have  made  the 
hearts  of  the  young  galliards  thrill,  as  they  first  discerned  them 
from  afar,  rising  from  among  the  trees,  and  pictured  to  them- 
selves the  beauties  casketed  like  gems  within  these  walls  !  In- 
deed, I  have  discovered  about  the  place  several  faint  records 
of  this  reign  of  love  and  romance,  when  the  Hall  was  a  kind 
of  Court  of  Beauty. 

Several  of  the  old  romances  in  the  library  have  marginal 
notes  expressing  sympathy  and  approbation,  where  there  are 
long  speeches  extolling  ladies'  charms,  or  protesting  eternal 
fidelity,  or  bewailing  the  cruelty  of  some  tyrannical  fair  one. 
The  interviews,  and  declarations,  and  parting  scenes  of  tender 
lovers,  also  bear  evidence  of  having  been  frequently  read, 
and  are  scored  and  marked  with  notes  of  admiration,  and  have 
initials  written  on  the  margins ;  most  of  which  annotations 
have  the  day  of  the  month  and  year  annexed  to  them.  Several 
of  the  windows,  too,  have  scraps  of  poetry  engraved  on  them 
with  diamonds,  taken  from  the  writings  of  the  fair  Mrs.  Philips, 
the  once  celebrated  Orinda.  Some  of  these  seem  to  have  been 
inscribed  by  lovers ;  and  others,  in  a  delicate  and  unsteady 
hand,  and  a  little  inaccurate  in  the  spelling,  have  evidently  been 
written  by  the  young  ladies  themselves,  or  by  female  friends, 
who  have  been  on  visits  to  the  Hall.  Mrs.  Philips  seems  to 
have  been  their  favorite  author,  and  they  have  distributed  the 
names  of  her  heroes  and  heroines  among  their  circle  of  inti- 
macy. Sometimes,  in  a  male  hand,  the  verse  bewails  the  cru- 
elty of  beauty,  and  the  sufferings  of  constant  love ;  while  in  a 
female  hand  it  prudishly  confines  itself  to  lamenting  the  parting 
of  female  friends.  The  bow-window  of  my  bedroom,  which 
has,  doubtless,  been  inhabited  by  one  of  these  beauties,  has 
several  of  these  inscriptions.  I  have  one  at  this  moment  before 
my  eyes,  called  "  Camilla  parting  with  Leonora:  " 

"  How  perish'd  la  the  joy  that's  past, 

The  present  how  unsteady ! 
What  comfort  can  be  great  and  last, 
When  this  is  gone  already?  " 


FAMILY  RELIQUE8.  29 

And  close  by  it  is  another,  written,  perhaps,  by  some  adven- 
turous lover,  who  had  stolen  into  the  lady's  chamber  during 
her  absence : 

"THEODOS1US  TO  CAMILLA. 

I'd  rather  in  your  favor  live, 

Than  in  a  lasting  name; 
And  much  a  greater  rate  would  give 

For  happiness  than  fame. 

THEODOSIUS.    1700." 

When  I  look  at  these  faint  records  of  gallantry  and  tender- 
ness ;  when  I  contemplate  the  fading  portraits  of  these  beauti- 
ful girls,  and  think,  too,  that  they  have  long  since  bloomed, 
reigned,  grown  old,  died,  and  passed  away,  and  with  them  all 
their  graces,  their  triumphs,  their  rivalries,  their  admirers  ;  the 
whole  empire  of  love  and  pleasure  in  which  they  ruled —  "all 
dead,  all  buried,  all  forgotten,"  I  find  a  cloud  of-jaaelancholy 
stealing  over  the  present  gayeties  around  me/''  I  was  gaztfig. 
in  a  musing  mood,  this  very  morning,  at  the  portrait  of  the 
lady  whose  husband  was  killed  abroad,  when  the  fan*  Julia 
entered  the  gallery,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  captain.  The 
sun  shone  through  the  row  of  windows  on  her  as  she  passed 
along,  and  she  seemed  to  beam  out  each  time  into  brightness, 
and  relapse  into  shade,  until  the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the  gal- 
lery closed  after  her.  I  felt  a  sadness  of  heart  at  the  idea,  that 
this  was  an  emblem  of  her  lot :  a  few  more  years  of  sunshine 
and  shade,  and  all  this  life  and  loveliness,  and  enjoyment,  will 
have  ceased,  and  nothing  be  left  to  commemorate  this  beautiful 
being  but  one  more  perishable  portrait ;  to  awaken,  perhaps, 
the  trite  speculations  of  some  future  loiterer,  like  myself,  when 
I  and  my  scribblings  shall  have  lived  through  our  brief  existence^ 
and  been  forgotten. 


AN  OLD   SOLDIER. 

I've  worn  some  leather  out  abroad ;  let  out  a  heathen  soul  or  two ;  fed  this  good  f  word 
with  the  black  blood  of  pagan  Christians ;  convened  a  few  infidel*  with  it.  —  But  l«t  that 
pass.  —  The  Ordinary. 

The  Hall  was  thrown  into  some  little  agitation,  a  few 
days  since,  by  the  arrival  of  General  Harbottle.  He  had 
been  expected  for  several  days,  and  looked  for,  rather  im- 
putiently,  by  several  of  the  family.  Master  Simon  assured 
me  that  I  would  like  the  general  hugely,  for  he  was  a  blade  of 


80  BRACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

the  old  school,  and  an  excellent  table  companion.  Lady  Lilly- 
craft,  also,  appeared  to  be  somewhat  fluttered,  on  the  morning 
of  the  general's  arrival,  for  he  had  been  one  of  her  early  ad- 
mirers ;  and  she  recollected  him  only  as  a  dashing  young  ensign, 
just  come  upon  the  town.  She  actually  spent  an  hour  longer 
at  her  toilet,  and  made  her  appearance  with  her  hair  uncom- 
monly frizzed  and  powdered,  and  an  additional  quantity  of 
rouge.  She  was  evidently  a  little  surprised  and  shocked,  there- 
fore, at  finding  the  lithe,  dashing  ensign  transformed  into  a 
corpulent  old  general,  with  a  double  chin ;  though  it  was  a  per- 
fect picture  to  witness  their  salutations ;  the  graciousness  of 
her  profound  courtesy,  and  the  air  of  the  old  school  with  which 
the  general  took  off  his  hat,  swayed  it  gently  in  his  hand,  and 
bowed  his  powdered  head. 

All  this  bustle  and  anticipation  has  caused  me  to  study  the 
general  with  a  little  more  attention  than,  perhaps,  I  should 
otherwise  have  done ;  and  the  few  days  that  he  has  already 
passed  at  the  Hall  have  enabled  me,  I  think,  to  furnish  a  toler- 
able likeness  of  him  to  the  reader. 

He  is,  as  Master  Simon  observed,  a  soldier  of  the  old  school, 
with  powdered  head,  side  locks,  and  pigtail.  His  face  is  shaped 
like  the  stern  of  a  Dutch  man-of-war,  narrow  at  top  and  wide 
at  bottom,  with  full  rosy  cheeks  and  a  double  chin ;  so  that,  to 
use  the  cant  of  the  day,  his  organs  of  eating  may  be  said  to  be 
powerfully  developed. 

The  general,  though  a  veteran,  has  seen  very  little  active 
service,  except  the  taking  of  Seringapatam,  which  forms  an 
era  in  his  history.  He  wears  a  large  emerald  in  his  bosom,  and 
a  diamond  on  his  finger,  which  he  got  on  that  occasion,  and 
whoever  is  unlucky  enough  to  notice  either,  is  sure  to  involve 
himself  in  the  whole  history  of  the  siege.  To  judge  from  the 
general's  conversation,  the  taking  of  Seringapatam  is  the  most 
important  affair  that  has  occurred  for  the  last  century. 

On  the  approach  of  warlike  times  on  the  continent,  he  was 
rapidly  promoted  to  get  him  out  of  the  way  of  younger  officers 
of  merit ;  until,  having  been  hoisted  to  the  rank  of  general,  he 
was  quietly  laid  on  the  shelf.  Since  that  time,  his  campaigns 
have  been  principal^  confined  to  watering-places ;  where  he 
drinks  the  waters  for  a  slight  touch  of  the  liver  which  he  got  in 
India ;  and  plays  whist  with  old  dowagers,  with  whom  he  has 
flirted  in  his  younger  days.  Indeed,  he  talks  of  all  the  fine 
women  of  the  last  half  century,  and,  according  to  hints  which 
he  now  and  then  drops,  has  enjoyed  the  particular  smiles  of 
many  of  them. 


THE   WIDOW'S  RETINUE.  33 

my  lady's  maid ;  the  cushions  piled  in  the  carriage  to  make  a 
soft  seat  still  softer,  and  to  prevent  the  dreaded  possibility  of 
a  jolt ;  the  smelling-bottles,  the  cordials,  the  baskets  of  biscuit 
and  fruit ;  the  new  publications  ;  all  provided  to  guard  against 
hunger,  fatigue,  or  ennui ;  the  led  horses,  to  vary  the  mode  of 
travelling ;  and  all  this  preparation  and  parade  to  move,  per- 
haps, some  very  good-for-nothing  personage  about  a  little  space 
of  earth ! 

I  do  not  mean  to  apply  the  latter  part  of  these  observa- 
tions to  Lady  Lillycraft,  for  whose  simple  kind-heartedness  I 
have  a  very  great  respect,  and  who  is  really  a  most  amiah^a  and 
worthy  being.  I  cannot  refrain,  however,  from  mentioning 
some  of  the  motley  retinue  she  has  brought  with  her;  and 
which,  indeed,  bespeak  the  overflowing  kindness  of  her  nature, 
which  requires  her  to  be  surrounded  with  objects  on  which  to 
lavish  it. 

In  the  first  place,  her  ladyship  has  a  pampered  coachman, 
with  a  red  face,  and  cheeks  that  hang  down  like  dew-laps.  He 
evidently  domineers  over  her  a  little  with  respect  to  the  fat 
horses  ;  and  only  drives  out  when  he  thinks  proper,  and  when 
he  thinks  it  will  be  "  good  for  the  cattle." 

She  has  a  favorite  page,  to  attend  upon  her  person ;  a  hand- 
some boy  of  about  twelve  years  of  age,  but  a  mischievous  var- 
let,  very  much  spoiled,  and  in  a  fair  way  to  be  good  for  nothing. 
He  is  dressed  in  green,  with  a  profusion  of  gold  cord  and  gilt 
buttons  about  his  clothes.  She  always  has  one  or  two  attend- 
ants of  the  kind,  who  are  replaced  by  others  as  soon  as  they 
grow  to  fourteen  years  of  age.  She  has  brought  two  dogs  with 
her,  also,  out  of  a  number  of  pets  which  she  maintains  at  home. 
One  is  a  fat  spaniel,  called  Zephyr  —  though  heaven  defend  me 
from  such  a  zephyr !  He  is  fed  out  of  all  shape  and  comfort ; 
his  eyes  are  nearly  strained  out  of  his  head ;  he  wheezes  with 
corpulency,  and  cannot  walk  without  great  difficulty.  The 
other  is  a  little,  old,  gray-muzzled  curmudgeon,  with  an  un- 
happy eye,  that  kindles  like  a  coal  if  you  only  look  at  him  ;  his 
uose  turns  up  ;  his  mouth  is  drawn  into  wrinkles,  so  as  to  show 
his  teeth  ;  in  short,  he  has  altogether  the  look  of  a  dog  far  gone 
in  misanthropy,  and  totally  sick  of  the  world.  When  he  walks, 
he  has  his  tail  curled  up  so  tight  that  it  seems  to  lift  his  feet 
from  the  ground ;  and  he  seldom  makes  use  of  more  than  three 
legs  at  a  time,  keeping  the  other  drawn  up  as  a  reserve.  This 
last  wretch  is  called  Beauty. 

These  dogs  are  full  of  elegant  ailments,  unknown  to  vulgar 
dogs ;  and  are  petted  and  nursed  by  Lady  Lillycraft  with  the 


34  SRACEBB1DGE  HALL. 

tenderest  kindness.  They  are  pampered  and  fed  with  delica» 
cies  by  their  fellow-minion,  the  page ;  but  their  stomachs  ar« 
often  weak  and  out  of  order,  so  that  they  cannot  eat ;  though  I 
have  now  and  then  seen  the  page  give  them  a  mischievous 
pinch,  or  thwack  over  the  head,  when  his  mistress  was  not  by. 
They  have  cushions  for  their  express  use,  on  which  they  'ie 
before  the  fire,  and  yet  are  apt  to  shiver  and  moan  if  there  is 
the  least  draught  of  air.  When  any  one  enters  the  room,  they 
make  a  tyrannical  barking  that  is  absolutely  deafening.  They 
are  insolent  to  all  the  other  dogs  of  the  establishment. 
There  is  a  noble  stag-hound,  a  great  favorite  of  the  Squire's, 
who  is  a  privileged  visitor  to  the  parlor ;  but  the  moment  he 
makes  his  appearance,  these  intruders  fly  at  him  with  furious 
rage ;  and  I  have  admired  the  sovereign  indifference  and  con- 
tempt with  which  he  seems  to  look  down  upon  his  puny  assail- 
ants. When  her  ladyship  drives  out,  these  dogs  are  generally 
carried  with  her  to  take  the  air ;  when  they  look  out  of  each 
window  of  the  carriage,  and  bark  at  all  vulgar  pedestrian  dogs. 
These  dogs  are  a  continual  source  of  misery  to  the  household : 
as  they  are  always  in  the  way,  they  every  now  and  then  get 
their  toes  trod  on,  and  then  there  is  a  yelping  on  their  part,  and 
a  loud  lamentation  on  the  part  of  their  mistress,  that  fill  the 
room  with  clamor  and  confusion. 

Lastly,  there  is  her  ladyship's  waiting-gentlewoman,  Mrs. 
Hannah,  a  prim,  pragmatical  old  maid ;  one  of  the  most  intol- 
erable and  intolerant  virgins  that  ever  lived.  She  has  kept  her 
virtue  by  her  until  it  has  turned  sour,  and  now  every  word  and 
look  smacks  of  verjuice.  She  is  the  very  opposite  to  her 
mistress,  for  one  hates,  and  the  other  loves,  all  mankind.  How 
they  first  came  together  I  cannot  imagine  ;  but  they  have  lived 
together  for  many  years  ;  and  the  abigail's  temper  being  tart  and 
encroaching,  and  her  ladyship's  easy  and  yielding,  the  former 
has  got  the  complete  upper  hand,  and  tyrannizes  over  the  good 
lady  in  secret. 

Lady  Lillycraft  now  and  then  complains  of  it,  in  great  con' 
fidence,  to  her  friends,  but  hushes  up  the  subject  immediately, 
if  Mrs.  Hannah  makes  her  appearance.  Indeed,  she  has  been 
so  accustomed  to  be  attended  by  her,  that  she  thinks  she  coul(J 
not  do  without  her ;  though  one  great  study  of  her  life,  is  to 
keep  Mrs.  Hannah  in  good-humor,  by  little  presents  and  kind- 


Master  Simon  has  a  most  devout  abhorrence,  mingled  with 
awe,  for  this  ancient  spinster.  He  told  me  the  other  day,  in  a 
whisper,  that  she  was  a  cursed  brimstone  —  in  fact,  he  added 


READY-MONEY  JACK.  35 

another  epithet,  which  I  would  not  repeat  for  the  world.  I 
haVfc-*eenn!l?ed,  however,  that  he  is  always  extremely  civil  to 
her  when  they  meet. 


READY-MONEY   JACK. 

My  purse,  it  is  my  privy  wyfe, 

This  song  I  dare  both  syng  and  say, 

It  keepeth  men  from  grievous  stryfe 

When  every  man  for  himself  shall  pay. 

As  I  ryde  in  ryche  array 

For  gold  and  silver  men  wyll  me  floryshe; 

But  thys  matter  I  dare  well  eaye, 

Every  gramercy  myne  own  purse.  —  Book  of  Hunting. 

ON  the  skirts  of  the  neighboring  village,  there  lives  a  kind 
of  small  potentate,  who,  for  aught  I  know,  is  a  representative 
of  one  of  the  most  ancient  legitimate  lines  of  the  present  day  ; 
for  the  empire  over  which  he  reigns  has  belonged  to  his  family 
time  out  of  mind.  His  territories  comprise  a  considerable 
number  of  good  fat  acres ;  and  his  seat  of  power  is  in  an  old 
farm-house,  where  he  enjoys,  unmolested,  the  stout  oaken  chair 
of  his  ancestors.  The  personage  to  whom  I  allude  is  a  sturdy 
old  yeoman  of  the  name  of  John  Tibbets,  or  rather,  Ready- 
Money  Jack  Tibbets,  as  he  is  called  throughout  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

The  first  place  where  he  attracted  my  attention  was  in  the 
church-yard  on  Sunday  ;  where  he  sat  on  a  tombstone  after  the 
service,  with  his  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  holding  forth  to  a  small 
circle  of  auditors  ;  and,  as  I  presumed,  expounding  the  law  and 
the  prophets  ;  until,  on  drawing  a  little  nearer,  I  found  he  was 
only  expatiating  on  the  merits  of  a  brown  horse.  He  presented 
so  faithful  a  picture  of  a  substantial  English  yeoman,  such  as 
he  is  often  described  in  books,  heightened,  indeed,  by  some 
little  finery  peculiar  to  himself,  that  I  could  not  but  take  note 
of  his  whole  appearance. 

He  was  between  fifty  and  sixty,  of  a  strong,  muscular  frame, 
and  at  least  six  feet  high,  with  a  physiognomy  as  grave  as  a 
lion's,  and  set  off  with  short,  curling,  iron-gray  locks.  Hia 
shirt-collar  was  turned  down,  and  displayed  a  neck  covered 
with  the  same  short,  curling,  gray  hair ;  and  he  wore  a  colored 
silk  neckcloth,  tied  very  loosely,  and  tucked  in  at  the  bosom, 
with  a  green  paste  brooch  on  the  knot.  His  coat  was  of  darb 


36  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

green  cloth,  with  silver  buttons,  on  each  of  which  was  engraved 
a  stag,  with  his  own  name,  John  Tibbets,  underneath.  He  had 
an  inner  waistcoat  of  figured  chintz,  between  which  and  his  coat 
was  another  of  scarlet  cloth,  unbuttoned.  His  breeches  were 
also  left  unbuttoned  at  the  knees,  not  from  any  slovenliness, 
but  to  show  a  broad  pair  of  scarlet  garters.  His  stockings 
were  blue,  with  white  clocks  ;  he  wore  large  silver  shoe-buckles  ; 
a  broad  paste  buckle  in  his  hatband ;  his  sleeve-buttons  were 
gold  seven-shilling  pieces ;  and  he  had  two  or  three  guineas 
hanging  as  ornaments  to  his  watch-chain. 

On  making  some  inquiries  about  him,  I  gathered  that  he  was 
descended  from  a  line  of  farmers,  that  had  always  lived  on  the 
same  spot,  and  owned  the  same  property  ;  and  that  half  of  the 
church-yard  was  taken  up  with  the  tombstones  of  his  race.  He 
has  all  his  life  been  an  important  character  in  the  place.  When 
a  youngster,  he  was  one  of  the  most  roaring  blades  of  the 
neighborhood.  No  one  could  match  him  at  wrestling,  pitching 
the  bar,  cudgel  play,  and  other  athletic  exercises.  Like  the 
renowned  Pinner  of  Wakefield,  he  was  the  village  champion ; 
carried  off  the  prize  at  all  the  fairs,  and  threw  his  gauntlet  at 
the  country  round.  Even  to  this  day,  the  old  people  talk  of  his 
prowess,  and  undervalue,  in  comparison,  all  heroes  of  the  green 
that  have  succeeded  him  ;  nay,  they  say,  that  if  Ready-Money 
Jack  were  to  take  the  field  even  now,  there  is  no  one  could 
stand  before  him. 

When  Jack's  father  died,  the  neighbors  shook  their  heads, 
and  predicted  that  young  hopeful  would  soon  make  way  with 
the  old  homestead  ;  but  Jack  falsified  all  their  predictions.  The 
moment  he  succeeded  to  the  paternal  farm,  he  assumed  a  new 
character ;  took  a  wife ;  attended  resolutely  to  his  affairs,  and 
became  an  industrious,  thrifty  farmer.  With  the  family  prop- 
erty, he  inherited  a  set  of  old  family  maxims,  to  which  he 
steadil}-  adhered.  He  saw  to  every  thing  himself ;  put  his  own 
hand  to  the  plough  ;  worked  hard  ;  ate  heartily  ;  slept  soundly  ; 
paid  for  every  thing  in  cash  down  ;  and  never  danced,  except 
he  could  do  it  to  the  music  of  his  own  money  in  both  pockets. 
He  has  never  been  without  a  hundred  or  two  pounds  in  gold  by 
him,  and  never  allows  a  debt  to  stand  unpaid.  This  has  gained 
him  his  current  name,  of  which,  by  the  by,  he  is  a  little  proud ; 
and  has  caused  him  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  very  wealthy  man 
by  all  the  village. 

Notwithstanding  his  thrift,  however,  he  has  never  denied 
himself  the  amusements  of  life,  but  has  taken  a  share  in  every 
passing  pleasure.  It  is  his  maxim  that  "he  that  works  hard 


READY-MONET  JACK.  31 

can  afford  to  play."  He  is,  therefore,  an  attendant  at  all  the 
country  fairs  and  wakes,  and  has  signalized  himself  by  feats  of 
strength  and  prowess  on  every  village  green  in  the  shire.  He 
often  makes  his  appearance  at  horse-races,  and  sports  his  half- 
guinea,  and  even  his  guinea  at  a  time ;  keeps  a  good  horse  for 
his  own  riding,  and  to  this  day  is  fond  of  following  the  hounds, 
and  is  generally  in  at  the  death.  He  keeps  up  the  rustic  revels, 
and  hospitalities  too,  for  which  his  paternal  farm-house  has 
always  been  noted ;  has  plenty  of  good  cheer  and  dancing  at 
harvest- home,  and,  above  all,  keeps  the  "  merry  night,"  1  as  it 
is  termed,  at  Christmas. 

With  all  his  love  of  amusement,  however,  Jack  is  by  no 
means  a  boisterous,  jovial  companion.  He  is  seldom  known  to 
laugh  even  in  the  midst  of  his  gayety ;  but  maintains  the  same 
grave,  lion-like  demeanor.  He  is  very  slow  at  comprehending 
a  joke  ;  and  is  apt  to  sit  puzzling  at  it  with  a  perplexed  look, 
while  the  rest  of  the  company  is  in  a  roar.  This  gravity  has, 
perhaps,  grown  on  him  with  the  growing  weight  of  his  charac- 
ter ;  for  he  is  gradually  rising  into  patriarchal  dignity  in  his 
native  place.  Though  he  no  longer  takes  an  active  part  in  ath- 
letic sports,  he  always  presides  at  them,  and  is  appealed  to 
on  all  occasions  as  umpire.  He  maintains  the  peace  on  the  vil- 
lage green  at  holiday  games,  and  quells  all  brawls  and  quarrels 
by  collaring  the  parties  and  shaking  them  heartily,  if  refractory. 
No  one  ever  pretends  to  raise  a  hand  against  him,  or  to  contend 
against  his  decisions  ;  the  young  men  having  grown  up  in  habit- 
ual awe  of  his  prowess,  and  in  implicit  deference  to  him  as  the 
champion  and  lord  of  the  green. 

He  is  a  regular  frequenter  of  the  village  inn,  the  landlady 
having  been  a  sweetheart  of  his  in  early  life,  and  he  having 
.always  continued  on  kind  terms  with  her.  He  seldom,  how- 
ever, drinks  any  thing  but  a  draught  of  ale ;  smokes  his  pipe, 
and  pays  his  reckoning  before  leaving  the  tap-room.  Here  he 
u  gives  his  little  senate  laws;"  decides  bets,  which  are  very 
generally  referred  to  him  ;  determines  upon  the  characters  and 
qualities  of  horses ;  and,  indeed,  plays  now  and  then  the  part 
of  a  judge  in  settling  petty  disputes  between  neighbors,  which 
otherwise  might  have  been  nursed  by  country  attornej-s  into 
tolerable  law-suits.  Jack  is  very  candid  and  impartial  in  his 
decisions,  but  he  has  not  a  head  to  carry  a  long  argument,  and 

1  MERRY  NIGHT  —  a  rustic  merry-making  in  a  farm-house  about  Christmas,  common 
in  some  parts  of  Yorkshire.  There  is  abundance  of  homely  fare,  tea,  cakes,  fruit,  and 
ale;  various  feats  of  agility,  amusing  games,  romping,  dancing,  and  kissing  withal. 
They  commonly  break  up  at  midnight. 


38  BBACEBBIDGE   HALL. 

is  very  apt  to  get  perplexed  and  out  of  patience  if  there  is 
much  "pleading.  He  generally  breaks  through  the  argument 
with  a  strong  voice,  and  brings  matters  to  a  summary  conclu- 
sion, by  pronouncing  what  he  calls  the  "  upshot  of  the  busi- 
ness," or,  in  other  words,  "the  long  and  the  short  of  the 
matter." 

Jack  made  a  journey  to  London,  a  great  many  years 
since,  which  has  furnished  him  with  topics  of  conversa- 
tion ever  since.  He  saw  the  old  king  on  the  terrace  at 
Windsor,  who  stopped,  and  pointed  him  out  to  one  of  the 
princesses,  being  probably  struck  with  Jack's  truly  yeoman- 
like  appearance.  This  is  a  favorite  anecdote  with  him,  and 
has  no  doubt  had  a  great  effect  in  making  him  a  most  loyal 
subject  ever  since,  in  spite  of  taxes  and  poors'  rates.  He 
was  also  at  Bartholomew  fair,  where  he  had  half  the  buttons 
cut  off  his  coat ;  and  a  gang  of  pick-pockets,  attracted  by  his 
external  show  of  gold  and  silver,  made  a  regular  attempt  to 
hustle  him  as  he  was  gazing  at  a  show ;  but  for  once  they 
caught  a  tartar ;  for  Jack  enacted  as  great  wonders  among  the 
gang  as  Samson  did  among  the  Philistines.  One  of  his  neigh- 
bors, who  had  accompanied  him  to  town,  and  was  with  him  at 
the  fair,  brought  back  an  account  of  his  exploits,  which  raised 
the  pride  of  the  whole  village  ;  who  considered  their  champion 
as  having  subdued  all  London,  and  eclipsed  the  achievements 
of  Friar  Tuck,  or  even  the  renowned  Robin  Hood  himself. 

Of  late  years,  the  old  fellow  has  begun  to  take  the  world 
easily  ;  he  works  less,  and  indulges  in  greater  leisure,  his  son 
having  grown  up,  and  succeeded  to  him  both  in  the  labors  of 
the  farm,  and  the  exploits  of  the  green.  Like  all  sons  of  dis- 
tinguished men,  however,  his  father's  renown  is  a  disadvan- 
tage to  him,  for  he  can  never  come  up  to  public  expectation. 
Though  a  fine  active  fellow  of  three-and-twenty,  and  quite  the 
"  cock  of  the  walk,"  yet  the  old  people  declare  he  is  nothing 
like  what  Ready-Money  Jack  was  at  his  time  of  life.  The 
youngster  himself  acknowledges  his  inferiority,  and  has  a  won- 
derful opinion  of  the  old  man,  who  indeed  taught  him  all  his 
athletic  accomplishments,  and  holds  such  a  sway  over  him,  that 
I  am  told,  even  to  this  day,  he  would  have  no  hesitation  to  take 
him  in  hands,  if  he  rebelled  against  paternal  government. 

The  Squire  holds  Jack  in  very  high  esteem,  and  shows  him 
to  all  his  visitors,  as  a  specimen  of  old  English  "  heart  of  oak." 
He  frequently  calls  at  his  house,  and  tastes  some  of  his  home- 
brewed, which  is  excellent.  He  made  Jack  a  present  of  old 
Tusser's  "  Hundred  Points  of  good  Husbandrie,"  which  has 


BACHELORS.  89 

furnished  him  with  reading  ever  since,  and  is  his  text-book 
and  manual  in  all  agricultural  and  domestic  concerns.  He  has 
made  dog's-ears  at  the  most  favorite  passages,  and  knows  many 
of  the  poetical  maxims  by  heart. 

Tibbets,  though  not  a  man  to  be  daunted  or  flattered  by  high 
acquaintances  ;  and  though  he  cherishes  a  sturdy  independence 
of  mind  and  manner,  yet  is  evidently  gratified  by  the  atten- 
tions of  the  Squire,  whom  he  has  known  from  boyhood,  and 
pronounces  "  a  true  gentleman  every  inch  of  him."  He  is  also 
on  excellent  terms  with  Master  Simon,  who  is  a  kind  of  privy 
counsellor  to  the  f amity ;  but  his  great  favorite  is  the  Oxonian, 
whom  he  taught  to  wrestle  and  pla}'  at  quarter-staff  when  a 
bo}*,  and  considers  the  most  promising  young  gentleman  in  the 
whole  country. 


BACHELORS. 

The  Bachelor  most  joyfully 

In  pleasant  plight  doth  pass  his  dales, 

Goodfellowehip  and  companie 

He  doth  maintain  and  keep  alwaies.  —  EVEN'S  Old  Ballads. 

THERE  is  no  character  in  the  comedy  of  human  life  that  is 
more  difficult  to  play  well  than  that  of  an  old  Bachelor.  When 
a  single  gentleman,  therefore,  arrives  at  that  critical  period 
when  he  begins  to  consider  it  an  impertinent  question  to  be 
asked  his  age,  I  would  advise  him  to  look  well  to  his  ways. 
This  period,  it  is  true,  is  much  later  with  some  men  than  with 
others ;  I  have  witnessed  more  than  once  the  meeting  of  two 
wrinkled  old  lads  of  this  kind,  who  had  not  seen  each  other  for 
several  years,  and  have  been  amused  by  the  amicable  exchange 
of  compliments  on  each  other's  appearance,  that  takes  place  on 
such  occasions.  There  is  always  one  invariable  observation : 
"  Why,  bless  my  soul !  you  look  younger  than  when  I  last  saw 
you!"  Whenever  a  man's  friends  begin  to  compliment  him 
about  looking  young,  he  ma}'  be  sure  that  they  think  he  is 
growing  old. 

I  am  led  to  make  these  remarks  by  the  conduct  of  Master 
Simon  and  the  general,  who  have  become  great  cronies.  As 
the  former  is  the  younger  by  many  years,  he  is  regarded  as 
quite  a  youthful  blade  by  the  general,  who  moreover  looks 
upon  him  as  a  man  of  great  wit  and  prodigious  acquirements. 
I  have  already  hinted  that  Master  Simon  is  a  family  beau,  and 
considered  rather  a  young  fellow  by  all  the  elderly  ladies  of  the 


40  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

connection  ;  for  an  old  bachelor,  in  an  old  family  connection,  is 
something  like  an  actor  in  a  regular  dramatic  corps,  who  seems 
to  "  flourish  in  immortal  youth,"  and  will  continue  to  play  the 
Romeos  and  Rangers  for  half  a  century  together. 

Master  Simon,  too,  is  a  little  of  the  chameleon,  and  takes  a 
different  hue  with  every  different  companion  :  he  is  very  atten- 
tive and  officious,  and  somewhat  sentimental,  with  Lady  Lilly- 
craft  ;  copies  out  little  namby-pamby  ditties  and  love-songs  for 
her,  and  draws  quivers,  and  doves,  and  darts,  and  Cupids,  to 
be  worked  on  the  corners  of  her  pocket-handkerchiefs.  He 
indulges,  however,  in  very  considerable  latitude  with  the  other 
married  ladies  of  the  family  ;  and  has  many  sly  pleasantries  to 
whisper  to  them,  that  provoke  an  equivocal  laugh  and  a  tap  of 
the  fan.  But  when  he  gets  among  young  company,  such  as 
Frank  Bracebridge,  the  Oxonian,  and  the  general,  he  is  apt  to 
put  on  the  mad  wag,  and  to  talk  in  a  very  bachelor-like  strain 
about  the  sex. 

In  this  he  has  been  encouraged  by  the  example  of  the  general, 
whom  he  looks  up  to  as  a  man  who  has  seen  the  world.  The 
general,  in  fact,  tells  shocking  stories  after  dinner,  when  the 
ladies  have  retired,  which  he  gives  as  some  of  the  choice  things 
that  are  served  up  at  the  Mulligatawney  club  ;  a  knot  of  boon 
companions  in  London.  He  also  repeats  the  fat  jokes  of  old 
Major  Pendergast,  the  wit  of  the  club,  and  which,  though  the 
general  can  hardly  repeat  them  for  laughing,  always  make  Mr. 
Bracebridge  look  grave,  he  having  a  great  antipathy  to  an  inde- 
cent jest.  In  a  word,  the  general  is  a  complete  instance  of  the 
declension  in  gay  life,  by  which  a  young  man  of  pleasure  is  apt 
to  cool  down  into  an  obscene  old  gentleman. 

I  saw  him  and  Master  Simon,  an  evening  or  two  since,  con- 
versing with  a  buxom  milkmaid  in  a  meadow ;  and  from  their 
elbowing  each  other  now  and  then,  and  the  general's  shaking 
his  shoulders,  blowing  up  his  cheeks,  and  breaking  out  into  a 
short  fit  of  irrepressible  laughter,  I  had  no  doubt  they  were 
playing  the  mischief  with  the  girl. 

As  I  looked  at  them  through  a  hedge,  I  could  not  but  think 
they  would  have  made  a  tolerable  group  for  a  modern  picture 
of  Susannah  and  the  two  elders.  It  is  true,  the  girl  seemed  in 
nowise  alarmed  at  the  force  of  the  enemy ;  and  I  question,  had 
either  of  them  been  alone,  whether  she  would  not  have  been 
more  than  they  would  have  ventured  to  encounter.  Such 
veteran  roisters  are  daring  wags  when  together,  and  will  put 
any  female  to  the  blush  with  their  jokes  ;  but  they  are  as  quiet  as 
lambs  when  they  fall  singly  into  the  clutches  of  a  fine  woman. 


BACHELORS.  41 

In  spite  of  the  general's  years,  he  evidently  is  a  little  vain  of 
his  person,  and  ambitious  of  conquests.  I  have  observed  him 
on  Sunday  in  church,  eying  the  country  girls  most  suspiciously ; 
and  have  seen  him  leer  upon  them  with  a  downright  amorous 
look,  even  when  he  has  been  gallanting  Lady  Lillycraft,  with 
great  ceremony,  through  the  church-yard.  The  general,  in  fact, 
is  a  veteran  in  the  service  of  Cupid,  rather  than  of  Mars,  hav- 
ing signalized  himself  in  all  the  garrison  towns  and  country 
quarters,  and  seen  service  in  every  ball-room  in  England.  Not 
a  celebrated  beauty  but  he  has  laid  siege  to ;  and  if  his  word 
ma}r  be  taken  in  a  matter  wherein  no  man  is  apt  to  be  over- 
veracious,  it  is  incredible  the  success  he  has  had  with  the  fair. 
At  present  he  is  like  a  worn-out  warrior,  retired  from  service ; 
but  who  still  cocks  his  beaver  with  a  military  air,  and  talks 
stoutly  of  fighting  whenever  he  comes  within  the  smell  of  gun- 
powder. 

I  have  heard  him  speak  his  mind  very  freely  over  his  bottle, 
about  the  folly  of  the  captain  in  taking  a  wife ;  as  he  thinks  A 
young  soldier  should  care  for  nothing  but  his  "  bottle  and  kind 
landlady."  But,  in  fact,  he  says  the  service  on  the  continent 
has  had  a  sad  effect  upon  the  young  men ;  they  have  been 
ruined  by  light  wines  and  French  quadrilles.  "  They've  noth-' 
ing,"  he  says,  "  of  the  spirit  of  the  old  service.  There  are  none 
of  your  six-bottle  men  left,  that  were  the  souls  of  a  mess  dinner, 
and  used  to  play  the  very  deuce  among  the  women." 

As  to  a  bachelor,  the  general  affirms  that  he  is  a  free  and  easy 
man,  with  no  baggage  to  take  care  of  but  his  portmanteau  ;  but 
a  married  man,  with  his  wife  hanging  on  his  arm,  always  puts 
him  in  mind  of  a  chamber  candlestick,  with  its  extinguisher 
hitched  to  it.  I  should  not  mind  all  this,  if  it  were  merely  con- 
fined to  the  general ;  but  I  fear  he  will  be  the  ruin  of  m}-  friend, 
Master  Simon,  who  already  begins  to  echo  his  heresies,  and  to 
talk  in  the  style  of  a  gentleman  that  has  seen  life,  and  lived 
upon  the  town.  Indeed,  the  general  seems  to  have  taken 
Master  Simon  in  hand,  and  talks  of  showing  him  the  lions  when 
he  comes  to  town,  and  of  introducing  him  to  a  knot  of  choice 
spirits  at  the  Mulligatawney  club  ;  which,  I  understand,  is  com- 
posed of  old  nabobs,  officers  in  the  Company's  employ,  and 
other  "  men  of  Ind,"  that  have  seen  service  in  the  East,  aud 
returned  home  burnt  out  with  curry,  and  touched  with  the  liver 
complaint.  They  have  their  regular  club,  where  they  eat  Mul- 
ligatawney soup,  smoke  the  hookah,  talk  about  Tippoo  Saib, 
Seringapatam,  aud  tiger-hunting ;  and  are  tediously  agreeable 
in  each  other's  company. 


42  BRACEBEIDGE   HALL. 


WIVES. 

Believe  me,  man,  there  is  no  greater  bliss* 

Than  is  the  quiet  joy  of  loving  wife; 

Which  whoso  wants,  half  of  himselfe  doth  misse. 

Friend  without  change,  playfellow  without  strife, 

Food  without  fulnesse,  counsaile  without  pride, 

Is  this  sweet  doubling  of  our  single  life.  —  SIB  P.  SIDNBT. 

THERE  is  so  much  talk  about  matrimony  going  on  around  me, 
in  consequence  of  the  approaching  event  for  which  we  are  as* 
sembled  at  the  Hall,  that  I  confess  I  find  my  thoughts  singularly 
exercised  on  the  subject.     Indeed,  all  the  bachelors  of  the  es- 
tablishment seem  to  be  passing  through  a  kind  of  fiery  ordeal ; 
I  for  Lady  Lilly  craft  is  one  of  those  tender,  romance-read  dames 
*  of  the  old  school,  whose  mind  is  filled  with  flames  and  darts, 
l^and  who  breathe  nothing  but  constancy  and  wedlock.     She  is 
forever  immersed  in  the  concerns  of  the  heart ;  and,  to  use  a 
's  poetical  phrase,  is  perfectly  surrounded  by  "  the  purple  light  of 
ilove."     The  very  general  seems  to  feel  the  influence  of  this 
i    sentimental  atmosphere  ;  to  melt  as  he  approaches  her  ladyship, 
'    and,  for  the  time,  to  forget  all  his  heresies  about  matrimony 
and  the  sex. 

The  good  lady  is  generally  surrounded  by  little  documents 
of  her  prevalent  taste  ;  novels  of  a  tender  nature  ;  richly  bound 
little  books  of  poetry,  that  are  filled  with  sonnets  and  love  tales, 
and  perfumed  with  rose-leaves ;  and  she  has  always  an  album 
at  hand,  for  which  she  claims  the  contributions  of  all  her 
friends.  On  looking  over  this  last  repository,  the  other  day, 
I  found  a  series  of  poetical  extracts,  in  the  Squire's  handwrit- 
ing, which  might  have  been  intended  as  matrimonial  hints  to 
his  ward.  I  was  so  much  struck  with  several  of  them,  that  I 
took  the  liberty  of  copying  them  out.  They  are  from  the  old 
play  of  Thomas  Davenport,  published  in  1661,  entitled  ''The 
City  Night-Cap  ;  "  in  which  is  drawn  out  and  exemplified,  in  the 
part  of  Abstemia,  the  character  of  a  patient  and  faithful  wife, 
which,  I  think,  might  vie  with  that  of  the  renowned  Griselda. 

I  have  often  thought  it  a  pity  that  plays  and  novels  should 
always  end  at  the  wedding,  and  should  not  give  us  another  act, 
and  another  volume,  to  let  us  know  how  the  hero  and  heroine 
conducted  themselves  when  married.  Their  main  object  seems 
to  be  merely  to  instruct  young  ladies  how  to  get  husbands,  but 
not  how  to  keep  them :  now  this  last,  I  speak  it  with  all  due 


WIVES.  .  43 

diffidence,  appears  to  me  to- be  a^iieaideratuni..irL.inodeni  mar- 
ried life.  IFIs  appalling  to  those  who  have  not  yet  adventured^ 
into  the  holy  state,  to  see  how  soon  the  flame  of  romantic  love 
burns  out,  or  rather  is  quenched  in  matrimony ;  and  how  de- 
plorably the  passionate,  poetic  lover  declines,  into  the  phleg- 
matic, prosaic  husband.  I  am. inclined  to  attribute  this  very 
much  to  the  defect  just  mentioned  in  the  plays  and  novels, 
which  form  so  important  a  branch  of  study  of  our  young  ladies ; 
and  which  teach  them  how  to  be  heroines,  but  leave  them  totally 
at  a  loss  when  they  come  to  be  wives.  The  play  from  which 
the  quotations  before  me  were  made,  however,  is  an  exception 
to  this  remark ;  and  I  cannot  refuse  myself  the  pleasure  of 
adducing  some  of  them  for  the  benefit  of  the  reader,  and  for 
the  honor  of  an  old  writer,  who  has  bravely  attempted  to 
awaken  dramatic  interest  in  favor  of  a  woman,  even  after  she 
was  married ! 

The  following  is  a  commendation  of  Abstemia  to  her  husband 
Lorenzo : 

1  She's  modest,  but  not  sullen,  and  loves  silence ; 
Not  that  she  wants  apt  words,  (for  when  she  speaks, 
She  inflames  love  with  wonder,)  but  because 
She  calls  wise  silence  the  soul's  harmony. 
She's  truly  chaste ;  yet  such  a  foe  to  coyness, 
The  poorest  call  her  courteous;  and  which  is  excellent, 
(Though  fair  and  young)  she  shuns  to  expose  herself 
To  the  opinion  of  strange  eyes.    She  either  seldom 
Or  never  walks  abroad  but  in  your  company, 
And  then  with  such  sweet  bashfulness,  as  if 
She  were  venturing  on  crack'd  ice,  and  takes  delight 
To  step  into  the  print  your  foot  hath  made, 
And  will  follow  you  whole  fields;  so  she  will  drive 
Tediousness  out  of  time,  with  her  sweet  character. 

Notwithstanding  all  this  excellence,  Abstemia  has  the  mis- 
fortune to  incur  the  unmerited  jealousy  of  her  husband.  In- 
stead, however,  of  resenting  his  harsh  treatment  with  clamor- 
ous upbraidings,  and  with  the  stormy  violence  of  high,  windy 
virtue,  by  which  the  sparks  of  anger  are  so  often  blown  into 
a  flame,  she  endures  it  with  the  meekness  of  conscious,  but 
patient,  virtue  ;  and  makes  the  following  beautiful  appeal  to  a 
friend  who  has  witnessed  her  long-suffering : 

Hast  thou  not  seen  me 

Bear  all  his  injuries,  as  the  ocean  suffers 

The  angry  bark  to  plough  through  her  bosom, 

And  yet  is  presently  so  smooth,  the  eye 

Cannot  perceive  where  the  wide  wound  was  made? 


44  BEACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

Lorenzo,  being  wrought  on  by  false  representations,  at  length 
repudiates  her.  To  the  last,  however,  she  maintains  hei  pa- 
tient sweetness,  and  her  love  for  him,  in  spite  of  his  cruelty. 
She  deplores  his  error,  even  more  than  his  unkindness ;  and 
laments  the  delusion  which  has  turned  his  very  affection  into  a 
source  of  bitterness.  There  is  a  moving  pathos  in  her  parting 
address  to  Lorenzo,  after  their  divorce : 

Farewell,  Lorenzo, 

Whom  my  soul  doth  love :  if  you  e'er  marry, 

May  you  meet  a  good  wife ;  BO  good,  that  you 

May  not  suspect  her,  nor  may  she  be  worthy 

Of  your  suspicion;  and  if  you  hear  hereafter 

That  I  am  dead,  inquire  but  my  last  words, 

And  you  shall  know  that  to  the  last  I  lov'd  you. 

And  when  you  walk  forth  with  your  second  choice 

Into  the  pleasant  fields,  and  by  chance  talk  of  me, 

Imagine  that  you  see  me,  lean  and  pale, 

Strewing  your  path  with  flowers.  — 

But  may  she  never  live  to  pay  my  debts :  (weeps1) 

If  but  in  thought  she  wrong  you,  may  she  die 

In  the  conception  of  the  injury. 

Pray  make  me  wealthy  with  one  kiss :  farewell,  sir: 

Lei  it  not  grieve  you  when  you  shall  remember 

That  I  was  innocent :  nor  this  forget, 

Though  innocence  here  suffer,  sigh,  and  groan, 

She  walks  but  thorow  thorns  to  find  a  throne. 

In  a  short  time  Lorenzo  discovers  his  error,  and  the  inno- 
cence of  his  injured  wife.  In  the  transports  of  his  repentance, 
he  calls  to  mind  all  her  feminine  excellence ;  her  gentle,  un* 
complaining,  womanly  fortitude  under  wrongs  and  sorrows : 

Oh,  Abstemia! 

How  lovely  thon  lookest  now !  now  thou  appeareat 
Chaster  than  ia  the  morning's  modesty 
That  rises  with  a  blush,  over  whose  bosom 
The  western  wind  creeps  softly ;  now  I  remember 
How,  when  she  sat  at  table,  her  obedient  eye 
Would  dwell  on  mine,  as  if  it  were  not  well, 
Unless  it  look'd  where  I  look'd :  oh  how  proud 
She  was,  when  she  could  cross  herself  to  please  me! 
But  where  now  is  this  fair  soul?    Like  a  silver  cloud 
She  hath  wept  herself,  I  fear,  into  the  dead  sea, 
And  will  be  found  no  more. 

It  is  but  doing  right  by  the  reader,  if  interested  in  the  fate 
of  Abstemia  by  the  preceding  extracts,  to  say,  that  she  was 
restored  to  the  arms  and  affections  of  her  husband,  rendered 


WIVES.  45 

fonder  than  ever,  ~by  that  disposition  in  every  good  heart,  to 
atone  for  past  injustice,  by  an  overflowing  measure  of  return- 
ing kindness : 

Thou  weaith,  worth  more  than  kingdoms;  I  am  now 

Confirmed  past  all  suspicion ;  thou  art  far 

Sweeter  in  thy  sincere  truth  than  a  sacrifice 

Deck'd  up  for  death  with  garlands.    The  Indian  winds 

That  blow  from  off  the  coast  and  cheer  the  sailor 

With  the  sweet  savor  of  their  spices,  want 

The  delight  flows  in  thee. 

I  have  been  more  affected  and  interested  by  this  little  dra- 
matic picture,  than  by  many  a  popular  love  tale ;  though,  as  I 
said  before,  I  do  not  think  it  likely  either  Abstemia  or  patient 
Grizzle  stand  much  chance  of  being  taken  for  a  model.  Still  I 
like  to  see  poetry  now  and  then  extending  its  views  beyond  the 
wedding-day,  and  teaching  a  lady_Jiow  to  make  herself  attrac- 
tive even  after  marriage.  There  is  no  gT«at.j!ieed--ol-eaforcing 
on  an  unmarried  lady  the  necessity  of  being  agreeable ;  nor  is 
there  any  great  art  requisite  in  a  youthful  beauty  to  enable* 
her  to  please.  Nature  has  multiplied  attractions  around  her. 
Youth  is  in  itself  attractive.  The  freshness  of  budding  beauty 
needs  no  foreign  aid  to  set  it  off ;  it  pleases  merely  because  it 
is  fresh,  and  budding,  and  beautiful.  But  it  is  for  the  married, 
state  that  a  woman  needs  the  most  instruction,  and  in  which"" 
she  should  be  most  on  her  guard  to  maintain  her  powers  of 
pleasing.  No  woman  can  expect  to  be  to  her  husband  all  that 
he  fancied  her  when  he  was  a  lover.  Men  are  always  doomed  ( 
to  be  duped,  not  so  much  b}'  the  arts  of  the  sex,  as  by  their  own 
imaginations.  They  are  always  wooing  goddesses,  and  marry-  \ 
ing  mere  mortals.  A  woman  should,  therefore,  ascertain  what 
was  the  charm  which  rendered  her  so  fascinating  when  a  girl, 
and  endeavor  to  keep  it  up  when  she  has  become  a  wife.  One 
great  thing  undoubtedly  was,  the  chariness  of  herself  and  her 
conduct,  which  an  unmarried  female  always  observes.  She 
should  maintain  the  same  niceness  and  reserve  in  her  person 
and  habits,  and  endeavor  still  to  preserve  a  freshness  and 
virgin  delicacy  in  the  eye  of  her  husband.  She  should  remem- 
ber that  the  province  of  woman  is  to  be  wooed,  not  to  woo ;  to 
be  caressed,  not  to  caress.  Man  is  an  ungrateful  being  in  love  ; 
bounty  loses  instead  of  winning  him.  The  secret  of  a  woman's 
power  does  not  consist  so  much  in  giving,  as  in  withholding. 
A  woman  ma}-  give  up  too  much  even  to-her  husband^  It  is 
lo  a  thousand  little  delicacies  of  conduct  that  she  must  trust  to 


46  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

keep  alive  passion,  and  to  protect  herself  from  that  dangerous 
familiarity,  that  thorough  acquaintance  with  every  weakness 
and  imperfection  incident  to  matrimony.  By  these  means  she 
may  still  maintain  her  powe^,  though  she  has  surrendered  her 
person,  and  may  continue  the  romance  of  love  even  beyond  the 
honeymoon. 

"She  that  hath  a  wise  husband,"  says  Jeremy  Taylor, 
"  must  entice  him  to  an  eternal  dearnesse  by  the  veil  of  mod- 
esty, and  the  grave  robes  of  chastity,  the  ornament  of  meek- 
nesse,  and  the  jewels  of  faith  and  charity.  She  must  have  no 
painting  but  blushings  ;  her  brightness  must  be  purity,  and  she 
must  shine  round  about  with  sweetness  and  friendship ;  and 
she  shall  be  pleasant  while  she  lives,  and  desired  when  she 
dies." 

I  have  wandered  into  a  rambling  series  of  remarks  on  a  trite 
subject,  and  a  dangerous  one  for  a  bachelor  to  meddle  with. 
That  I  may  not,  however,  appear  to  confine  my  observations 
entirely  to  the  wife,  I  will  conclude  with  another  quotation 
from  Jeremy  Taylor,  in  which  the  duties  of  both  parties  are 
mentioned ;  while  I  would  recommend  his  sermon  on  the  mar- 
riage-ring to  all  those  who,  wiser  than  myself,  are  about  enter- 
ing the  happy  state  of  wedlock. 

"There  is  scarce  any  matter  of  duty  but  it  concerns  them 
both  alike,  and  is  only  distinguished  by  names,  and  hath  its 
variety  by  circumstances  and  little  accidents  :  and  what  in  one 
is  called  love,  in  the  other  is  called  reverence  ;  and  what  in  the 
wife  is  obedience,  the  same  in  the  man  is  duty.  He  provides, 
and  she  dispenses ;  he  gives  commandments,  and  she  rules  by 
them  ;  he  rules  her  by  authority,  and  she  rules  him  by  love ; 
she  ought  by  all  means  to  please  him,  and  he  must  by  no  means 
displease  her." 


STORY    TELLING. 

A  FAVORITE  evening  pastime  at  the  Hall,  and  one  which  the 
worthy  Squire  is  fond  of  promoting,  is  story  telling,  "  a  good, 
old-fashioned  fire-side  amusement,"  as  he  terms  it.  Indeed, 
I  believe  he  promotes  it,  chiefly,  because  it  was  one  of  the 
choice  recreations  in  those  days  of  yore,  when  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen were  not  much  in  the  habit  of  reading.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  he  will  often,  at  supper-table,  when  conversation  flags, 
call  on  some  one  or  other  of  the  company  for  a  story,  as  it  was 


THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN.  47 

formerly  the  custom  to  call  for  a  song  ;  and  it  is  edifying  tc  see 
the  exemplary  patience,  and  even  satisfaction,  with  which  the 
good  old  gentleman  will  sit  and  listen  to  some  hackneyed  tale 
that  he  has  heard  for  at  least  a  hundred  times. 

In  this  way,  one  evening,  the  current  of  anecdotes  and  stories 
ran  upon  mysterious  personages  that  have  figured  at  different 
times,  and  filled  the  world  with  doubt  and  conjecture ;  such  as 
the  Wandering  Jew,  the  Man  with  the  Iron  Mask,  who  tor- 
mented the  curiosity  of  all  Europe ;  the  Invisible  Girl,  and 
last,  though  not  least,  the  Pig-faced  Lady. 

At  length,  one  of  the  company  was  called  upon  that  had  the 
most  unpromising  physiognomy  for  a  story  teller,  that  ever 
I  had  seen.  He  was  a  thin,  pale,  weazen-faced  man,  extremely 
nervous,  that  had  sat  at  one  corner  of  the  table,  shrunk  up,  as 
it  were,  into  himself,  and  almost  swallowed  up  in  the  cape  of 
his  coat,  as  a  turtle  in  its  shell. 

The  very  demand  seemed  to  throw  him  into  a  nervous  agita- 
tion ;  yet  he  did  not  refuse.  He  emerged  his  head  out  of  his 
shell,  made  a  few  odd  grimaces  and  gesticulations,  before  he 
could  get  his  muscles  into  order,  or  his  voice  under  command, 
and  then  offered  to  give  some  account  of  a  mysterious  person- 
age that  he  had  recently  encountered  in  the  course  of  his  trav- 
els, and  one  whom  he  thought  fully  entitled  to  being  classed 
with  the  Man  with  the  Iron  Mask. 

I  was  so  much  struck  with  his  extraordinary  narrative,  that 
I  have  written  it  out  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  for  the 
amusement  of  the  reader.  I  think  it  has  in  it  all  the  elements 
of  that  mysterious  and  romantic  narrative,  so  greedily  sought 
after  at  the  present  day. 


THE    STOUT    GENTLEMAN. 

A    STAGE-COACH    ROMANCE. 
"I'll  cross  it,  though  it  blast  me!  "  —  Hamlet. 

IT  was  a  rainy  Sunday,  in  the  gloomy  month  of  Novem- 
ber. I  had  been  detained,  in  the  course  of  a  journey,  by  a 
slight  indisposition,  from  which  I  was  recovering ;  but  was 
still  feverish,  and  obliged  to  keep  within  doors  all  day,  in  an 
inn  of  the  small  town  of  Derby.  A  wet  Sunday  in  a  country 
inn !  —  whoever  has  had  the  luck  to  experience  one  can  alone 


48  BEACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

judge  of  my  situation.  The  rain  pattered  against  the 
ments  ;  the  bells  tolled  for  church  with  a  melancholy  sound.  I 
went  to  the  windows,  in  quest  of  something  to  amuse  the  eye ; 
but  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  placed  completely  out  of  the 
reach  of  all  amusement.  The  windows  of  my  bedroom  looked 
out  among  tiled  roofs  and  stacks  of  chimneys,  while  those  of 
my  sitting-room  commanded  a  full  view  of  the  stable-yard.  I 
know  of  nothing  more  calculated  to  make  a  man  sick  of  this 
world,  than  a  stable-yard  on  a  rainy  day.  The  place  was  lit- 
tered with  wet  straw,  that  had  been  kicked  about  by  travellers 
and  stable-boys.  In  one  corner  was  a  stagnant  pool  of  water, 
surrounding  an  island  of  muck  ;  there  were  several  half-drowned 
fowls  crowded  together  under  a  cart,  among  w'hich  was  a  miser- 
able, crest-fallen  cock,  drenched  out  of  all  life  and  spirit ;  his 
drooping  tail  matted,  as  it  were,  into  a  single  feather,  along 
which  the  water  trickled  from  his  back  ;  near  the  cart  was  a 
half-dozing  cow  chewing  the  cud,  and  standing  patiently  to  be 
rained  on,  with  wreaths  of  vapor  rising  from  her  reeking  hide  ; 
a  wall-eyed  horse,  tired  of  the  loneliness  of  the  stable,  was 
poking  his  spectral  head  out  of  a  window,  with  the  ram  drip- 
ping on  it  from  the  eaves ;  an  unhappy  cur,  chained  to  a  dog- 
house hard  by,  uttered  something  every  now  and  then,  between 
a  bark  and  a  yelp ;  a  drab  of  a  kitchen-wench  tramped  back- 
wards and  forwards  through  the  yard  in  pattens,  looking  as 
sulky  as  the  weather  itself ;  every  thing,  in  short,  was  comfort- 
less and  forlorn,  excepting  a  crew  of  hardened  ducks,  as- 
sembled like  boon  companions  round  a  puddle,  and  making  a 
riotous  noise  over  their  liquor. 

I  was  lonely  and  listless,  and  wanted  amusement.  My  room 
soon  became  insupportable.  I  abandoned  it,  and  sought  what 
is  technically  called  the  travellers'-room.  This  is  a  public 
room  set  apart  at  most  inns  for  the  accommodation  of  a  class 
of  wayfarers  called  travellers,  or  riders ;  a  kind  of  commercial 
knights-errant,  who  are  incessantly  scouring  the  kingdom  in 
gigs,  on  horseback,  or  by  coach.  They  are  the  only  successors 
that  I  know  of,  at  the  present  day,  to  the  knights-errant  of 
yore.  They  lead  the  same  kind  of  roving  adventurous  life, 
only  changing  the  lance  for  a  driving- whip,  the  buckler  for  a 
pattern-card,  and  the  coat  of  mail  for  an  upper  Benjamin. 
Instead  of  vindicating  the  charms  of  peerless  beauty,  they  rove 
about  spreading  the  fame  and  standing  of  some  substantial 
tradesman  or  manufacturer,  and  are  ready  at  any  time  to  bar- 
gain in  his  name;  it  being  the  fashion  now-a-days  to  trade, 
instead  of  fight,  with  one  another.  As  the  room  of  the  hostel, 


THE  STOUT  GENTLEMAN.  49 

In  the  good  old  fighting  times,  would  be  hung  round  at  night 
with  the  armor  of  wayworn  warriors,  such  as  coats  of  mail, 
falchions,  and  yawning  helmets  ;  so  the  travellers'-room  is  gar- 
nished with  the  harnessing  of  their  successors,  with  box-coats, 
whips  of  all  kinds,  spurs,  gaiters,  and  oil-cloth  covered  hats. 

I  was  in  hopes  of  finding  some  of  these  worthies  to  talk  with, 
but  was  disappointed.  There  were,  indeed,  two  or  three  in  the 
room  ;  but  I  could  make  nothing  of  them.  One  was  just  finish- 
ing his  breakfast,  quarrelling  with  his  bread  and  butter,  and 
huffing  the  waiter  ;  another  buttoned  on  a  pair  of  gaiters,  with 
many  execrations  at  Boots  for  not  having  cleaned  his  shoes 
well ;  a  third  sat  drumming  on  the  table  with  his  fingers,  and 
looking  at  the  rain  as  it  streamed  down  the  window-glass ;  they 
all  appeared  infected  by  the  weather,  and  disappeared,  one  after 
the  other,  without  exchanging  a  word. 

I  sauntered  to  the  window,  and  stood  gazing  at  the  people 
picking  their  way  to  church,  with  petticoats  hoisted  mid-leg 
high,  and  dripping  umbrellas.  The  bell  ceased  to  toll,  and  the 
streets  became  silent.  I  then  amused  myself  with  watching 
the  daughters  of  a  tradesman  opposite  ;  who,  being  confined  to 
the  house  for  fear  of  wetting  their  Sunday  finery,  played  off 
their  charms  at  the  front  windows,  to  fascinate  the  chance 
tenants  of  the  inn.  They  at  length  were  summoned  away  by  a 
vigilant  vinegar-faced  mother,  and  I  had  nothing  further  from 
without  to  amuse  me. 

What  was  I  to  do  to  pass  away  the  long-lived  day  ?  I  was 
sadly  nervous  and  lonely  ;  and  every  thing  about  an  inn  seems 
calculated  to  make  a  dull  day  ten  times  duller.  Old  news- 
papers, smelling  of  beer  and  tobacco-smoke,  and  which  I  had 
already  read  half-a-dozen  times  —  good-for-nothing  books,  that 
were  worse  than  rainy  weather.  I  bored  myself  to  death  with 
an  old  volume  of  the  Lady's  Magazine.  I  read  all  the  common- 
placed names  of  ambitious  travellers  scrawled  on  the  panes  of 
glass ;  the  eternal  families  of  the  Smiths,  and  the  Browns,  and 
the  Jacksons,  and  the  Johnsons,  and  all  the  other  sons  ;  and  I 
deciphered  several  scraps  of  fatiguing  inn-window  poetry  which 
I  have  met  with  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 

The  day  continued  lowering  and  gloomy ;  the  slovenly,  rag- 
ged, spongy  clouds  drifted  heavily  along  ;  there  was  no  variety 
even  in  the  rain  :  it  was  one  dull,  continued,  monotonous  patter 
—  patter  —  patter,  excepting  that  now  and  then  I  was  enlivened 
by  the  idea  of  a  brisk  shower,  from  the  rattling  of  the  drops 
upon  a  passing  umbrella. 

It  was  quite  refreshing  (if  I  may  be  allowed  a  hackneyed 


50  BRACEBRIDGE    HALL. 

phrase  of  the  duy)  when,  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  a  horn 
blew,  and  a  stage-coach  whirled  through  the  street,  with  outside 
passengers  stuck  all  over  it,  cowering  under  cotton  umbrellas, 
and  seethed  together,  and  reeking  with  the  steams  of  wet  box- 
coats  and  upper  Benjamins. 

The  sound  brought  out  from  their  lurking-places  a  crew  of 
vagabond  boys,  and  vagabond  dogs,  and  the  carroty- headed 
hostler,  and  that  nondescript  animal  ycleped  Boots,  and  all  the 
other  vagabond  race  that  infest  the  purlieus  of  an  inn ;  but  the 
bustle  was  transient ;  the  coach  again  whirled  on  its  way  ;  and 
boy  and  dog,  and  hostler  and  Boots,  all  slunk  back  again  to 
their  holes ;  the  street  again  became  silent,  and  the  rain  con- 
tinued to  rain  on.  In  fact,  there  was  no  hope  of  its  clearing 
up ;  the  barometer  pointed  to  rainy  weather ;  mine  hostess' 
tortoise-shell  cat  sat  by  the  fire  washing  her  face,  and  rubbing 
her  paws  over  her  ears;  and,  on  referring  to  the  almanac,  I 
found  a  direful  prediction  stretching  from  the  top  of  the  page 
to  the  bottom  through  the  whole  month,  "  expect  —  much  —  rain 
—  about  —  this  —  time." 

I  was  dreadfully  hipped.  The  hours  seemed  as  if  they  would 
never  creep  by.  The  very  ticking  of  the  clock  became  irksome. 
At  length  the  stillness  of  the  house  was  interrupted  by  the  ring- 
ing of  a  bell.  Shortly  after,  I  heard  the  voice  of  a  waiter  at 
the  bar:  "The  stout  gentleman  in  No.  13  wants  his  breakfast. 
Tea  and  bread  and  butter  with  ham  and  eggs ;  the  eggs  not  to 
be  too  much  done." 

In  such  a  situation  as  mine,  every  incident  is  of  importance. 
Here  was  a  subject  of  speculation  presented  to  my  mind,  and 
ample  exercise  for  my  imagination.  I  am  prone  to  paint  pic- 
tures to  myself,  and  on  this  occasion  I  had  some  materials  to 
work  upon.  Had  the  guest  up-stairs  been  mentioned  as  Mr. 
Smith,  or  Mr.  Brown,  or  Mr.  Jackson,  or  Mr.  Johnson,  or 
merely  as  "the  gentleman  in  No.  13,"  it  would  have  been  a 
perfect  blank  to  me.  I  should  have  thought  nothing  of  it ;  but 
"  The  stout  gentleman !  "  —  the  very  name  had  something  in  it 
of  the  picturesque.  It  at  once  gave  the  size ;  it  embodied  the 
personage  to  my  mind's  eye,  and  my  fancy  did  the  rest. 

He  was  stout,  or,  as  some  term  it,  lusty ;  in  all  probability, 
therefore,  he  was  advanced  in  life,  some  people  expanding  as 
they  grow  old.  By  his  breakfasting  rather  late,  and  in  his  own 
room,  he  must  be  a  man  accustomed  to  live  at  his  ease,  and 
above  the  necessity  of  early  rising ;  no  doubt  a  round,  rosy, 
lusty  old  gentleman. 

There  was  another  violent  ringing.     The  stout  gentleman  was 


THE  STOUT  GENTLEMAN.  51 

impatient  for  his  breakfast.  He  was  evidently  a  man  of  impor^ 
tance  ;  "  well-to-do  in  the  world  ;  "  accustomed  to  be  promptly 
waited  upon  ;  of  a  keen  appetite,  and  a  little  cross  when  hungry  ; 
44  perhaps,"  thought  I,  "  he  may  be  some  London  Alderman; 
or  who  knows  but  he  may  be  a  Member  of  Parliament?  " 

The  breakfast  was  sent  up  and  there  was  a  short  interval  of 
silence ;  he  was,  doubtless,  making  the  tea.  Presently  there 
was  a  violent  ringing,  and  before  it  could  be  answered,  another 
ringing  still  more  violent.  "Bless  me!  what  a  choleric  old 
gentleman!"  The  waiter  came  down  in  a  huff.  The  butter 
was  rancid,  the  eggs  were  overdone,  the  ham  was  too  salt :  — 
the  stout  gentleman  was  evidently  nice  in  his  eating ;  one  of 
those  who  eat  and  growl,  and  keep  the  waiter  on  the  trot,  and 
Mve  in  a  state  militant  with  the  household. 

The  hostess  got  into  a  fume.  I  should  observe  that  she  was 
a  brisk,  coquettish  woman  ;  a  little  of  a  shrew,  and  something 
of  a  slammerkin,  but  very  pretty  withal ;  with  a  nincompoop 
for  a  husband,  as  shrews  are  apt  to  have.  She  rated  the  ser- 
vants roundly  for  their  negligence  in  sending  up  so  bad  a  break- 
fast, but  said  not  a  word  against  the  stout  gentleman  ;  by  which 
I  clearly  perceived  that  he  must  be  a  man  of  consequence, 
entitled  to  make  a  noise  and  to  give  trouble  at  a  country  inn. 
Other  eggs,  and  ham,  and  bread  and  butter,  were  sent  up. 
They  appeared  to  be  more  graciously  received ;  at  least  there 
was  no  further  complaint. 

I  had  not  made  many  turns  about  the  travellers '-room,  when 
there  was  another  ringing.  Shortly  afterwards  there  was  a  stir 
and  an  inquest  about  the  house.  The  stout  gentleman  wanted 
the  Times  or  the  Chronicle  newspaper.  I  set  him  down,  there- 
fore, for  a  Whig ;  or  rather,  from  his  being  so  absolute  and 
lordly  where  he  had  a  chance,  I  suspected  him  of  being  a  Radical. 
Hunt,  I  had  heard,  was  a  large  man;  "who  knows,"  thought 
I,  "  but  it  is  Hunt  himself  !  "" 

My  curiosit}-  began  to  be  awakened.  I  inquired  of  the  waiter 
who  was  this  stout  gentleman  that  was  making  all  this  stir ;  but 
I  could  get  no  information  :  nobody  seemed  to  know  his  name. 
The  landlords  of  bustling  inns  seldom  trouble  their  heads  about 
the  names  or  occupations  of  their  transient  guests.  The  color 
of  a  coat,  the  shape  or  size  of  the  person,  is  enough  to  suggest 
a  travelling  name.  It  is  either  the  tall  gentleman,  or  the  short 
gentleman,  or  the  gentlemn.ii  in  black,  or  the  gentleman  in 
snuff-color ;  or,  as  in  the  present  instance,  the  stout  gentleman. 
A  designation  of  the  kind  once  hit  on  answers  every  purpose, 
and  saves  till  further  inquiry. 


52  BBACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

Rain —  rain  —  rain!  pitiless,  ceaseless  rain  !  No  such  thing 
as  putting  a  foot  out  of  doors,  and  no  occupation  nor  amuse- 
ment within.  By  and  by  I  heard  some  one  walking  overhead. 
It  was  in  the  stout  gentleman's  room.  He  evidently  was  a  large 
man,  by  the  heaviness  of  his  tread ;  and  an  old  man,  from  his 
wearing  such  creaking  soles.  "He  is  doubtless,"  thought  I, 
"  some  rich  old  square-toes,  of  regular  habits,  and  is  now  tak- 
ing exercise  after  breakfast." 

I  now  read  all  the  advertisements  of  coaches  and  hotels  that 
were  stuck  about  the  mantel-piece.  The  Lady's  Magazine  had 
become  an  abomination  to  me ;  it  was  as  tedious  as  the  clay 
itself.  I  wandered  out,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  and  ascended 
again  to  my  room.  I  had  not  been  there  long,  when  there  was 
a  squall  from  a  neighboring  bedroom.  A  door  opened  and 
slammed  violently ;  a  chamber-maid,  that  I  had  remarked  for 
having  a  ruddy,  good-humored  face,  went  down-stairs  in  a 
violent  flurry.  The  stout  gentleman  had  been  rude  to  her. 

This  sent  a  whole  host  of  my  deductions  to  the  deuce  in  a 
moment.  This  unknown  personage  could  not  be  an  old  gentle- 
man ;  for  old  gentlemen  are  not  apt  to  be  so  obstreperous  to 
chamber-maids.  He  could  not  be  a  young  gentleman  ;  for  young 
gentlemen  are  not  apt  to  inspire  such  indignation.  He  must 
be  a  middle-aged  man,  and  confounded  ugly  into  the  bargain, 
or  the  g''rl  would  not  have  taken  the  matter  in  such  terrible 
dudgeon.  I  confess  I  was  sorely  puzzled. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  heard  the  voice  of  my  landlady.  I  caught 
a  glance  of  her  as  she  came  tramping  up-stairs  ;  her  face  glow- 
ing, her  cap  flaring,  her  tongue  wagging  the  whole  way.  "  She'd 
have  no  such  doings  in  her  house,  she'd  warrant !  If  gentlemen 
did  spend  money  freely,  it  was  no  rule.  She'd  have  no  servant 
maids  of  hers  treated  in  that  wa}%  when  they  were  about  their 
work,  that's  what  she  wouldn't!  " 

As  I  hate  squabbles,  particularly  with  women,  and  above  all 
with  pretty  women,  I  slunk  back  into  my  room,  and  partly 
closed  the  door ;  but  my  curiosity  was  too  much  excited  not  to 
listen.  The  landlady  marched  intrepidly  to  the  enemy's  citadel, 
and  entered  it  with  a  storm :  the  door  closed  after  her.  I  heard 
her  voice  in  high  windy  clamor  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then  it 
gradually  subsided,  like  a  gust  of  wind  in  a  garret ;  then  there 
was  a  laugh ;  then  I  heard  nothing  more. 

After  a  little  while,  my  landlady  came  out  with  an  odd  smile 
on  her  face,  adjusting  her  cap,  which  was  a  little  on  one  side. 
As  she  went  down-stairs,  I  heard  the  landlord  ask  her  what 
was  the  matter;  she  said,  "  Nothing  at  all,  only  the  girl's  a 


THE  STOUT  GENTLEMAN.  58 

fool," — I  was  more  than  ever  perplexed  what  to  make  of 
this  unaccountable  personage,  who  could  put  a  good-natured 
chamber-maid  in  a  passion,  and  send  away  a  termagant  land- 
lad}'  in  smiles.  He  could  not  be  so  old,  nor  cross,  nor  ugly 
either. 

I  had  to  go  to  work  at  his  picture  again,  and  to  paint  him 
entirely  different.  I  now  set  him  down  for  one  of  those  stout 
gentlemen  that  are  frequently  met  with,  swaggering  about  the 
doors  of  country  inns.  Moist,  merry  fellows,  in  Belcher  hand- 
kerchiefs, whose  bulk  is  a  little  assisted  by  malt  liquors*  Men 
who  have  seen  the  world,  and  been  sworn  at  Highgate ;  who 
are  used  to  tavern  life;  up  to  all  the  tricks  of  tapsters,  and 
knowing  in  the  ways  of  sinful  publicans.  Free-livers  on  a 
small  scale ;  who  are  prodigal  within  the  compass  of  a  guinea ; 
who  call  all  the  waiters  by  name,  tousle  the  rnaids,  gossip  with 
the  landlady  at  the  bar,  and  prose  over  a  pint  of  port,  or  a 
glass  of  negus,  after  dinner. 

The  morning  wore  away  in  forming  these  and  similar  sur- 
mises. As  fast  as  I  wove  one  system  of  belief,  some  movement 
of  the  unknown  would  completely  overturn  it,  and  throw  all  my 
thoughts  again  into  confusion.  Such  are  the  solitary  operations 
,of  a  feverish  mind.  I  was,  as  I  have  said,  extremely  nervous  ; 
and  the  continual  meditation  on  the  concerns  of  this  invisible 
personage  began  to  have  its  effect :  —  I  was  getting  a  fit  of  the 
lidgets. 

Dinner-time  came.  I  hoped  the  stout  gentleman  might  dine 
in  the  travellers '-room,  and  that  I  might  at  length  get  a  view 
of  his  person  ;  but  no  —  he  had  dinner  served  in  his  own  room. 
What  could  be  the  meaning  of  this  solitude  and  mystery  ?  He 
could  not  be  a  Radical ;  there  was  something  too  aristocratical 
in  thus  keeping  himself  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and 
condemning  himself  to  his  own  dull  company  throughout  a 
raiuy  day.  And  then,  too,  he  lived  too  well  for  a  discontented 
politician.  He  seemed  to  expatiate  on  a  variety  of  dishes,  and 
to  sit  over  his  wine  like  a  jolly  friend  of  good  living.  Indeed, 
my  doubts  on  this  head  were  soon  at  an  end ;  for  he  could  not 
have  finished  his  first  bottle  before  I  could  faintly  hear  him 
humming  a  tune  ;  and  on  listening,  I  found  it  to  be  "  God  save 
the  King."  'Twas  plain,  then,  he  was  no  Radical,  but  a  faith- 
ful subject :  one  who  grew  loyal  over  his  bottle,  and  was  ready 
to  stand  by  king  and  constitution,  when  he  could  stand  by 
nothing  else.  But  who  could  he  be?  My  conjectures  began  to 
run  wild.  Was  he  not  some  personage  of  distinction,  travel- 
ling incog.?  "God  knows!"  said  I,  at  my  wit's  end;  "it 


54  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

may  be  one  of  the  royal  family  for  aught  I  know,  for  they  are 
all  stout  gentlemen  !  " 

The  weather  continued  rainy.  The  mysterious  unknown 
kept  his  room,  and,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  his  chair,  for  I  did 
not  hear  him  move.  In  the  mean  time,  as  the  day  advanced, 
the  travellers'-room  began  to  be  frequented.  Some,  who  had 
just  arrived,  came  in  buttoned  up  in  box-coats ;  others  came 
home,  who  had  been  dispersed  about  the  town.  Some  took 
.heir  dinners,  and  some  their  tea.  Had  I  been  in  a  different 
taood,  I  should  have  found  entertainment  in  studying  this 
peculiar  class  of  men.  There  were  two  especially,  who  were 
regular  wags  of  the  road,  and  up  to  ail  the  standing  jokes  of 
travellers.  They  had  a  thousand  sly  things  to  say  to  the  wait- 
ing-maid, whom  they  called  Louisa,  and  Ethelinda,  and  a  dozen 
other  fine  names,  changing  the  name  every  time,  and  chuckling 
amazingly  at  their  own  waggerj.  My  mind,  however,  had 
become  completely  engrossed  by  the  stout  gentleman.  He  had 
kept  my  fancy  in  chase  during  a  long  day,  and  it  was  not  now 
to  be  diverted  from  the  scent. 

The  evening  gradually  wore  away.  The  travellers  read  the 
papers  two  or  three  times  over.  Some  drew  round  the  fire, 
and  told  long  stories  about  their  horses,  about  their  adventures, 
their  overturns,  and  breakings  down.  They  discussed  the  cred- 
its of  different  merchants  and  different  inns ;  and  the  two  wags 
told  several  choice  anecdotes  of  pretty  chamber-maids,  and  kind 
landladies.  All  this  passed  as  they  were  quietly  taking  what 
they  called  their  night-caps,  that  is  to  say,  strong  glasses  of 
brandy  and  water  and  sugar,  or  some  other  mixture  of  the  kind  ; 
after  which  they  one  after  another  rang  for  '  •  Boots  ' '  and  the 
chamber-maid,  and  walked  off  to  bed  in  old  shoes  cut  down 
into  marvellously  uncomfortable  slippers. 

There  was  now  only  one  man  left ;  a  short-legged,  long-bcdied, 
plethoric  fellow,  with  a  very  large,  sandy  head.  He  sat  by 
himself,  with  a  glass  of  port  wine  negus,  and  a  spoon  ;  sipping 
and  stirring,  and  meditating  and  sipping,  until  nothing  was  left 
but  the  spoon.  He  gradually  fell  asleep  bolt  upright  in  his 
chair,  with  the  empty  glass  standing  before  him  ;  and  the  can- 
dle seemed  to  fall  asleep  too,  for  the  wick  grew  long,  and  black, 
and  cabbaged  at  the  end,  and  dimmed  the  little  light  that  re- 
mained in  the  chamber.  The  gloom  that  now  prevailed  was 
contagious.  Around  hung  the  shapeless,  and  almost  spectral, 
box-coats,  of  departed  travellers,  long  since  buried  in  deep 
sleep.  I  only  heard  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  with  the  deep- 
drawn  breathings  of  the  sleeping  topers,  and  the  drippings  of 


THE  STOUT  GENTLEMAN.  55 

the  rain,  drop — drop  —  drop,  from  the  eaves  of  the  house.  The 
church-bells  chimed  midnight.  All  at  once  the  stout  gentle- 
man began  to  walk  overhead,  pacing  slowly  backwards  and 
forwards.  There  was  something  extremely  awful  in  all  this, 
especially  to  one  in  my  state  of  nerves.  These  ghastly  great- 
coats, these  guttural  breathings,  and  the  creaking  footsteps  of 
this  mysterious  being.  His  steps  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and 
at  length  died  away.  I  could  bear  it  no  longer.  I  was  wound 
up  to  the  desperation  of  a  hero  of  romance.  "Be  he  who  or 
what  he  may,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  I'll  have  a  sight  of  him  !  " 
I  seized  a  chamber  candle,  and  hurried  up  to  number  13.  The 
door  stood  ajar.  I  hesitated  —  I  entered  :  the  room  was  de- 
serted. There  stood  a  large,  broad-bottomed  elbow  chair  at  a 
table,  on  which  was  an  empty  tumbler,  and  a  "  Times  "  news- 
paper, and  the  room  smelt  powerfully  of  Stilton  cheese. 

The  mysterious  stranger  had  evidently  but  just  retired.  I 
turned  off,  sorely  disappointed,  to  my  room,  which  had  been 
changed  to  the  front  of  the  house.  As  I  went  along  the  corri- 
dor, I  saw  a  large  pair  of  boots,  with  dirty,  waxed  tops,  stand- 
ing at  the  door  of  a  bed-chamber.  They  doubtless  belonged  to 
the  unknown  ;  but  it  would  not  do  to  disturb  so  redoubtable  a 
personage  in  his  den  ;  he  might  discharge  a  pistol,  or  something 
worse,  at  my  head.  I  went  to  bed,  therefore,  and  lay  awake 
half  the  night  in  a  terrible  nervous  state  ;  and  even  when  I  fell 
asleep,  I  was  still  haunted  in  my  dreams  b}-  the  idea  of  the 
stout  gentleman  and  his  wax-topped  boots. 

I  slept  rather  late  the  next  morning,  and  was  awakened  by 
some  stir  and  bustle  in  the  house,  which  I  could  not  at  first 
comprehend ;  until  getting  more  awake,  I  found  there  was  a 
mail-coach  starting  from  the  door.  Suddenly  there  was  a  cry 
from  below,  "  The  gentleman  has  forgot  his  umbrella  !  look  for 
the  gentleman's  umbrella  in  No.  13  !"  I  heard  an  immediate 
scampering  of  a  chamber-maid  along  the  passage,  and  a  shrill 
reply  as  she  ran,  "•  Here  it  is!  here's  the  gentleman's  um- 
brella! " 

The  mysterious  stranger  then  was  on  the  point  of  setting  off. 
This  was  the  only  chance  I  should  ever  have  of  knowing  him. 
I  sprang  out  of  bed,  scrambled  to  the  window,  snatched  aside 
the  curtains,  and  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  rear  of  a  person 
getting  in  at  the  coach-door.  The  skirts  of  a  brown  coat  parted 
behind,  and  gave  me  a  full  view  of  the  broad  disk  of  a  pair  of 
drab  breeches.  The  door  closed  —  "  all  right !  "  was  the  word 
—  the  coach  whirled  off :  —  and  that  was  all  I  ever  saw  of  thf 
stout  gentleman ! 


56  BRACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

FOREST  TREES. 

"A  living  gallery  of  aged  trees." 

ONE  of  the  favorite  themes  of  boasting  with  the  Squire,  is 
the  noble  trees  on  his  estate,  which,  in  truth,  has  some  of  the 
finest  I  have  seen  in  England.  There  is  something  august 
and  solemn  in  the  great  avenues  of  stately  oaks  that  gather 
their  branches  together  high  in  air,  and  seem  to  reduce  the 
pedestrians  beneath  them  to  mere  pigmies.  "An  avenue  of 
oaks  or  elms,"  the  Squire  observes,  "is  the  true  colonnade  that 
should  lead  to  a  gentleman's  house.  As  to  stone  and  marble, 

^    any  one  can  rear  them  at  once  —  they  are  the  work  of  the  day ; 

;    but  commend  me  to  the  colonnades  that  have  grown  old  and 
(\    y    great  with  the  family,  and  tell  by  their  grandeur  how  long  the 

S  family  has  endured." 

/  The  Squire  has  great  reverence  for  certain  venerable  trees, 
gray  with  moss,  which  he  considers  as  the  ancient  nobility  of  his 
domain.  There  is  the  ruin  of  an  enormous  oak,  which  has  been 
so  much  battered  by  time  and  tempest,  that  scarce  any  thing 
is  left ;  though  he  says  Christy  recollects  when,  in  his  boyhood, 
it  was  healthy  and  flourishing,  until  it  was  struck  by  lightning. 
It  is  now  a  mere  trunk,  with  one  twisted  bough  stretching  up 
into  the  air,  leaving  a  green  branch  at  the  end  of  it.  This 
sturdy  wreck  is  much  valued  by  the  Squire;  he  calls  it  his 
standard-bearer,  and  compares  it  to  a  veteran  warrior  beaten 
down  in  battle,  but  bearing  up  his  banner  to  the  last.  He  has 
actually  had  a  fence  built  round  it,  to  protect  it  as  much  as 
possible  from  further  injury. 

It  is  with  great  difficulty  he  can  ever  be  brought  to  have 
any  tree  cut  down  on  his  estate.  To  some  he  looks  with 
reverence,  as  having  been  planted  by  his  ancestors;  to  others 
with  a  kind  of  paternal  affection,  as  having  been  planted 
by  himself;  and  he  feels  a  degree  of  awe  in  bringing  down, 
with  a  few  strokes  of  the  axe,  what  it  has  cost  centuries  to 
build  up.  I  confess  I  cannot  but  sympathize,  in  some  degree, 
with  the  good  Squire  on  the  subject.  Though  brought  up  in  a 
country  overrun  with  forests,  where  trees  are  apt  to  be  consid- 
ered mere  encumbrances,  and  to  be  laid  low  without  hesitation 
or  remorse,  yet  I  could  never  see  a  fine  tree  hewn  down  without 
concern.  The  poets,  who  are  naturally  lovers  of  trees,  as  they 
are  of  every  thing  that  is  beautiful,  have  artfully  awakened 


FOREST  TREES.  57 

great  interest  in  their  favor,  by  representing  them  as  the  habi- 
tations of  sylvan  deities  ;  insomuch  that  every  great  tree  had  its 
tutelar  genius,  or  a  nymph,  whose  existence  was  limited  to  its 
duration.  Evelyn,  in  his  Sylva,  makes  several  pleasing  and 
fanciful  allusions  to  this  superstition.  "  As  the  fall,"  says  he, 

of  a  very  aged  oak,  giving  a  crack  like  thunder,  has  often 
been  heard  at  many  miles'  distance ;  constrained  though  I 
often  am  to  fell  them  with  reluctancy,  I  do  not  at  any  time  re- 
member to  have  heard  the  groans  of  those  nymphs  (grieving 
to  be  dispossessed  of  their  ancient  habitations)  without  some 
emotion  and  pity."  And  again,  m  alluding  to  a  violent  storm 
that  had  devastated  the  woodlands,  he  says,  "  Methinks  I  still 
hear,  sure  I  am  that  I  still  feel,  the  dismal  groans  of  our 
forests ;  the  late  dreadful  hurricane  having  subverted  so  many 
thousands  of  goodly  oaks,  prostrating  the  trees,  laying  them  in 
ghastly  postures,  like  whole  regiments  fallen  in  battle  by  the 
sword  of  the  conqueror,  and  crushing  all  that  grew  beneath 
them.  The  public  accounts,"  he  adds,  "reckon  no  less  than 
three  thousand  brave  oaks  in  one  part  only  of  the  forest  of 
Dean  blown  down." 

I  have  paused  more  than  once  in  the  wilderness  of  America, 
to  contemplate  the  traces  of  some  blast  of  wind,  which  seemed; 
to  have  rushed  down  from  the  clouds,  and  ripped  its  way 
through  the  bosom  of  the  woodlands ;  rooting  up,  shivering, 
and  splintering  the  stoutest  trees,  and  leaving  a  long  track  of 
desolation.  There  was  something  awful  in  the  vast  havoc  made 
among  these  gigantic  plants  ;  and  in  considering  their  magnifi- 
cent remains,  so  rudely  torn  and  mangled,  and  hurled  down  to 
perish  prematurely  on  their  native  soil,  I  was  conscious  of  a 
strong  movement  of  the  sympathy  so  feelingly  expressed  by 
Evelyn.  I  recollect,  also,  hearing  a  traveller  of  poetical  tem- 
perament expressing  the  kind  of  horror  which  he  felt  on  be- 
holding on  the  banks  of  the  Missouri,  an  oak  of  prodigious  size, 
which  had  been,  in  a  manner,  overpowered  by  an  enormous 
wild  grape-vine.  The  vine  had  clasped  its  huge  folds  round  the 
trunk,  and  thence  had  wound  about  every  branch  and  twig, 
until  the  mighty  tree  had  withered  in  its  embrace.  It  seemed 
like  Laocoon  struggling  ineffectually  in  the  hideous  coils  of 
the  monster  Python.  It  was  the  lion  of  trees  perishing  in  the 
embraces  of  a  vegetable  boa. 

I  am  fond  of  listening  to  the  conversation  of  English  gentle- 
men on  rural  concerns,  and  of  noticing  wztli  what  taste  and 
discrimination,  and  what  strong,  unaffected  interest  they  will 
discuss  topics,  which,  in  other  countries,  are  abandoned  to 


58  BBACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

mere  woodmen,  or  rustic  cultivators.  I  have  heard  a  noble  earl 
descant  on  park  and  forest  scenery  with  the  science  and  feeling 
of  a  painter.  He  dwelt  on  the  shape  and  beauty  of  particular 
trees  on  his  estate,  with  as  much  pride  and  technical  precision 
as  though  he  had  been  discussing  the  merits  of  statues  in  his 
collection.  I  found  that  he  had  even  gone  considerable  dis- 
tances to  examine  trees  which  were  celebrated  among  rural 
amateurs  ;  for  it  seems  that  trees,  like  horses,  have  their  estab- 
lished points  of  excellence ;  and  that  there  are  some  in  England 
which  enjoy  very  extensive  celebrity  among  tree-fanciers,  from 
being  perfect  in  their  kind. 

There  is  something  nobly  simple  and  pure  in  such  a  taste : 

ifargVes,  I  think,  a  sweet  and  generous  nature,  to  have  this 

/strong  relish  for  the  beauties  of  vegetation,  and  this  friendship 

/     for  the  hardy  and  glorious  sons  of  the  forest.     There  is  a 
/      grandeur  of  thought  connected  with  this  part  of  rural  economy. 
It  is,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  figure,  4he  heroic  line  of  hus- 
— bandry.     It  is  worthy  of  liberal,  and  free-born,  and  aspiring 
men.     He  who  plants  an  oak,  looks  forward  to  future  ages, 
and  plants  for  posterity.     Nothing  can  be  less  selfish  than  this. 
He  cannot  expect  to  sit  in  its  shade,  nor  enjoy  its  shelter ;  but 
he  exults  in  the  idea  that  the  acorn  which  he   has   buried  in 
the  earth  will  grow  up  into  a  lofty  pile,  and   keep   on  flour- 
ishing, and  increasing,  and  benefiting  mankind,  long  after   he 
shall  have  ceased  to  tread  his  paternal  fields.     Indeed,  it  is  the 
nature  of  such  occupations   to   lift  the   thoughts   above   mere 
worldliness.     As  the  leaves  of  trees  are  said  to  absorb  all  nox- 
->  ious  qualities  of  the  air,  and  to  breathe  forth  a  purer  atmos- 

.  X-Jshere,  ^o  it  seeing  to  me  as  if  they^drew^fq:Qm  us—alt-^xTrdid^and 
fAr    /angrv^passions,  and    breathed   forth  peace    and   philanthropy. 


There  is  a  serene  and  settled  majesty  in  woodland  scenery,  that 
J&*  enters  Tnto  the  soul,  and  dilates  and  elevates  it,  and  fills  it  with 
noble  inclinations.  The  ancient  and  hereditary  groves,  too,  which 
embower  this  island,  are  most  of  them  full  of  story.  They  are 
haunted  by  the  recollections  of  great  spirits  of  past  ages,  who 
have  sought  for  relaxation  among  them  from  the  tumult  of 
arms,  or  the  toils  of  state,  or  have  wooed  the  muse  beneath 
their  shade.  Who  can  walk,  with  soul  unmoved,  among  the 
stately  groves  of  Penshurst,  where  the  gallant,  the  amiable, 
the  elegant  Sir  Philip  Sidney  passed  his  boyhood  ;  or  can  look 
without  fondness  upon  the  tree  that  is  said  to  have  been 
planted  on  his  birthday ;  or  can  ramble  among  the  classic 
bowers  of  Hagley  ;  or  can  pause  among  the  solitudes  of  Wind- 
sor Forest,  and  look  at  the  oaks  around,  huge,  gray,  and  time- 


FOREST    TREES.  59 

worn,  like  the  old  castle  towers,  and  not  feel  as  if  he  were 
surrounded  by  so  many  monuments  of  long-enduring  glory?  It 
is,  when  viewed  in  this  light,  that  planted  groves,  and  stately 
avenues,  and  cultivated  parks,  have  an  advantage  over  the 
more  luxuriant  beauties  of  unassisted  nature.  It  is  then  they 
teem  with  moral  associations,  and  keep  up  the  ever-interesting 
story  of  human  existence. 

It  is  incumbent,  then,  on  the  high  and  generous  spirits  of  an 
ancient  nation,  to  cherish  these  sacred  groves  which  surround 
their  ancestral  mansions,  and  to  perpetuate  them  to  their  de- 
scendants. Republican  as  I  am  by  birth,  and  brought  up  as  I 
have  been  in  republican  principles  and  habits,  I  can  feel  noth- 
ing of  the  servile  reverence  for  titled  rank,  merely  because  it 
is  titled ;  but  I  trust  that  I  am  neither  churl  nor  bigot  in  my 
creed.  I  can  both  see  and  feel  how  hereditary  distinction, 
when  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  generous  mind,  may  elevate  that 
mind  into  true  nobility.  It  is  one  of  the  effects  of  hereditary 
rank,  when  it  falls  thus  happily,  that  it  multiplies  the  duties, 
and,  as  it  were,  extends  the  existence  of  the  possessor.  He 
does  not  feel  himself  a  mere  individual  link  in  creation,  respon- 
sible only  for  his  own  brief  term  of  being.  He  carries  back  his 
existence  in  proud  recollection,  and  he  extends  it  forward  in 
honorable  anticipation.  He  lives  with  his  ancestry,  and  he 
lives  with  his  posterity.  To  both  does  he  consider  himself 
involved  in  deep  responsibilities.  As  he  has  received  much 
from  those  who  have  gone  before,  so  he  feels  bound  to  trans- 
mit much  to  those  who  are  to  come  after  him.  His  domestic 
undertakings  seem  to  imply  a  longer  existence  than  those  of 
ordinary  men ;  none  are  so  apt  to  build  and  plant  for  future 
centuries,  as  noble  spirited  men,  who  have  received  their  heri- 
tages from  foregone  ages. 

I  cannot  but  applaud,  therefore,  the  fondness  and  pride  with 
which  I  have  noticed  English  gentlemen,  of  generous  tempera- 
ments, and  high  aristocratic  feelings,  contemplating  those  mag- 
nificent trees,  rising,  like  towerjL  and  pyramids,  fr 
midst  of  their  paternal  lands.  'There  is  an  affinity  between 
all  nature,  animate  and  inanimate :  the  oak,  in  the  pride  and 
lustihood  of  its  growth,  seems  to  me  to  take  its  range  with  the 
lion  and  the  eagle,  and  to  assimilate,  in  the  grandeur  of  its 
attributes,  to  heroic  and  intellectual  man.  With  its  mighty 
pillar  rising  straight  and  direct  towards  heaven,  bearing  up  its 
leafy  honors  from  the  impurities  of  earth,  and  supporting  them 
aloft  in  free  air  and  glorious  sunshine,  it  is  an  emblem  of  what 
a  true  nobleman  should  be ;..a  refuge  for  the  weak,  a  shelter  for 


60  BBACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

oppressed,  a  defence  for  the  defenceless  ;  warding  off  from 
them  the  peltings  of  the  storm,  or  the  scorching  rays  of  arbi- 
trary power.  He  who  is  this,  is  an  ornament  and  a  blessing 
to  his  native  land.  He  who  is  otherwise,  abuses  his  eminent 
advantages ;  abuses  the  grandeur  and  prosperity  which  he  has 
drawn  from  the  bosom  of  his  country.  Should  tempests  arise, 
and  he  be  laid  prostrate  by  the  storm,  who  would  mourn  over 
his  fall?  Should  he  be  borne  down  by  the  oppressive  hand  of 
power,  who  would  murmur  at  his  fate?  —  "  Why  cumbereth  he 
the  ground?" 


A   LITERARY  ANTIQUARY. 

Printed  bookes  he  contemnes,  as  a  novelty  of  this  latter  age;  but  a  manuscript  be 
pores  on  everlastingly;  especially  if  the  cover  be  all  moth-eaten,  and  the  dust  make  a 
parenthesis  betweene  every  syllable.  —  Mico-Cosmographie,  1628. 

THE  Squire  receives  great  sympathy  and  support,  in  his  anti- 
quated humors,  from  the  parson,  of  whom  I  made  some  men- 
tion on  my  former  visit  to  the  Hall,  and  who  acts  as  a  kind  of 
family  chaplain.  He  has  been  cherished  by  the  Squire  almost 
constantly,  since  the  time  that  they  were  fellow-students  at 
Oxford  ;  for  it  is  one  of  the  peculiar  advantages  of  these  great 
universities,  that  they  often  link  the  poor  scholar  to  the  rich 
patron,  by  early  and  heart- felt  ties,  which  last  through  life, 
without  the  usual  humiliations  of  dependence  and  patronage. 
Under  the  fostering  protection  of  the  Squire,  therefore,  the 
little  parson  has  pursued  his  studies  in  peace.  Having  lived 
almost  entirely  among  books,  and  those,  too,  old  books,  he  is 
quite  ignorant  of  the  world,  and  his  mind  is  as  antiquated  as  the 
garden  at  the  Hall,  where  the  flowers  are  all  arranged  in  formal 
beds,  and  the  yew-trees  clipped  into  urns  and  peacocks. 

His  taste  for  literary  antiquities  was  first  imbibed  in  the  Bod- 
leian Library  at  Oxford  ;  where,  when  a  student,  he  passed  many 
an  hour  foraging  among  the  old  manuscripts.  He  has  since,  at 
different  times,  visited  most  of  the  curious  libraries  in  England, 
and  has  ransacked  many  of  the  cathedrals.  With  all  his  quaint 
and  curious  learning,  he  has  nothing  of  arrogance  or  pedantry  ; 
but  that  unaffected  earnestness  and  guileless  simplicity  which 
seem  to  belong  to  the  literary  antiquary. 

He  is  a  dark,  mouldy  little  man,  and  rather  dry  in  his  man- 
"ner ;  yet,  on  his  favorite  theme,  he  kindles  up,  and  at  times  is 
even  eloquent.  No  fox-hunter,  recounting  his  last  day's  sport, 


A   LITERARY  ANTIQUARY.  61 

could  be  more  animated  than  I  have  seen  the  worthy  parson, 
when  relating  his  search  after  a  curious  document,  which  he 
had  traced  from  library  to  library,  until  he  fairly  unearthed  it 
in  the  dusty  chaptei'-house  of  a  cathedral.  When,  too,  he  de- 
scribes some  venerable  manuscript,  with  its  rich  illuminations, 
its  thick  creamy  vellum,  its  glossy  ink,  and  the  odor  of  the 
cloisters  that  seemed  to  exhale  from  it,  he  rivals  the  enthusi- 
asm of  a  Parisian  epicure,  expatiating  on  the  merits  of  a  Peri- 
gord  pie,  or  a  P«tt6  de  Strasbourg. 

His  brain  seems  absolutely  haunted  with  love-sick  dreams 
about  gorgeous  old  works  in  "silk  linings,  triple  gold  bands, 
and  tinted  leather,  locked  up  in  wire  cases,  and  secured  from 
the  vulgar  hands  of  the  mere  reader;"  and,  to  continue  the 
happy  expressions  of  an  ingenious  writer,  "  dazzling  one's 
eyes  like  eastern  beauties,  peering  through  their  jalousies."  l 

He  has  a  great  desire,  however,  to  read  such  works  in  the 
old  libraries  and  chapter-houses,  to  which  they  belong ;  for  he 
thinks  a  black-letter  volume  reads  best  in  one  of  those  venera- 
ble chambers  where  the  light  struggles  through  dusty  lancet 
windows  and  painted  glass ;  and  that  it  loses  half  its  zest,  if 
taken  away  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  quaintly-carved 
oaken  book-case  and  Gothic  reading-desk.  At  his  suggestion, 
the  Squire  has  had  the  library  furnished  in  this  antique  taste, 
and  several  of  the  windows  glazed  with  painted  glass,  that  they 
may  throw  a  properly  tempered  light  upon  the  pages  of  their 
favorite  old  authors. 

The  parson,  I  am  told,  has  been  for  some  time  meditating  a 
commentary  on  Strutt,  Brand,  and  Douce,  in  which  he  means 
to  detect  them  in  sundry  dangerous  errors  in  respect  to  popular 
games  and  superstitions ;  a  work  to  which  the  Squire  looks  for- 
ward with  great  interest.  He  is,  also,  a  casual  contributor  to 
that  long-established  repository  of  national  customs  and  antiq- 
uities, the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  and  is  one  of  those  who  every 
now  and  then  make  an  inquiry  concerning  some  obsolete  cus- 
tom or  rare  legend ;  nay,  it  is  said  that  some  of  his  communi- 
cations have  been  at  least  six  inches  in  length.  He  frequently 
receives  parcels  by  coach  from  different  parts  of  the  kingdom, 
containing  mouldy  volumes  and  almost  illegible  manuscripts ; 
for  it  is  singular  what  an  active  correspondence  is  kept  up 
among  literary  antiquaries,  and  how  soon  the  fame  of  any  rare 
volume,  or  unique  copy,  just  discovered  among  the  rubbish  of 
a  library,  is  circulated  among  them.  The  parson  is  more  busy 

»  Disraeli  -  Curiosities  of  Literature. 


62  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

than  common  just  now,  being  a  little  flurried  by  an  advertise- 
ment  of  a  work,  said  to  be  preparing  for  the  press,  on  the 
mythology  of  the  middle  ages.  The  little  man  has  long  been 
gathering  together  all  the  hobgoblin  tales  he  could  collect,  illus^ 
trative  of  the  superstitions  of  former  times  ;  and  he  is  in  a  com- 
plete  fever  lest  this  formidable  rival  should  take  the  field 
before  him. 

Shortly  after  my  arrival  at  the  Hall,  I  called  at  the  parson- 
age, in  company  with  Mr.  Bracebridge  and  the  general.  The 
parson  had  not  been  seen  for  several  days,  which  was  a  matter 
of  some  surprise,  as  he  was  an  almost  daily  visitor  at  the  Hail. 
We  found  him  in  his  stud}' ;  a  small  dusky  chamber,  lighted  by 
a  lattice  window  that  looked  into  the  church-yard,  and  was 
overshadowed  by  a  yew-tree.  His  chair  was  surrounded  by 
folios  and  quartos,  piled  upon  the  floor,  and  his  table  was  cov- 
ered with  books  and  manuscripts.  The  cause  of  his  seclusion 
was  a  work  which  he  had  recently  received,  and  with  which  he 
had  retired  in  rapture  from  the  world,  and  shut  himself  up  to 
enjoy  a  literary  honeymoon  undisturbed.  Never  did  board- 
ing-school girl  devour  the  pages  of  a  sentimental  novel,  or  Don 
Quixote  a  chivalrous  romance,  with  more  intense  delight  than 
did  the  little  man  banquet  on  the  pages  of  this  delicious  work. 
It  was  Dibdin's  Bibliographical  Tour ;  a  work  calculated  to 
have  as  intoxicating  an  effect  on  the  imaginations  of  literary 
antiquaries,  as  the  adventures  of  the  heroes  of  the  Round  Table, 
on  all  true  knights  ;  or  the  tales  of  the  early  American  voyagers 
on  the  ardent  spirits  of  the  age,  filling  them  with  dreams  of 
Mexican  and  Peruvian  mines,  and  of  the  golden  realm  of  El 
Dorado. 

The  good  parson  had  looked  forward  to  this  bibliographical 
expedition  as  of  far  greater  importance  than  those  to  Africa  or 
the  North  Pole.  With  what  eagerness  had  he  seized  upon  the 
history  of  the  enterprise  !  with  what  interest  had  he  followed 
the  redoubtable  bibliographer  and  his  graphical  squire  in  their 
adventurous  roamiugs  among  Norman  castles,  and  cathedrals, 
and  French  libraries,  and  German  convents  and  universities ; 
penetrating  into  the  prison-houses  of  vellum  manuscripts,  and 
exquisitely  illuminated  missals,  and  revealing  their  beauties  to 
the  world ! 

When  the  parson  had  finished  a  rapturous  eulogy  on  this 
most  curious  and  entertaining  work,  he  drew  forth  from  a  little 
drawer  a  manuscript,  lately  received  from  a  correspondent, 
which  had  perplexed  him  sadly.  It  was  written  in  Normal? 
French,  in  very  ancient  characters,  and  so  faded  and  mouldered 


A    LITERARY    ANTIQUARf.  63 

away  as  to  be  almost  illegible.  It  was  apparently  an  old  Nor- 
man drinking  song,  which  might  have  been  brought  over  by  one 
of  William  tne  Conqueror's  carousing  followers.  The  writing 
was  just  legible  enough  to  keep  a  keen  antiquity-hunter  on  a 
doubtful  chase  ;  here  and  there  he  would  be  completely  thrown 
out,  and  then  there  would  be  a  few  words  so  plainly  written  as 
to  put  him  on  the  scent  again.  In  this  way  he  had  been  led 
on  for  a  whole  day,  until  he  had  found  himself  completely  at 
fault. 

The  Squire  endeavored  to  assist  him,  but  was  equally  baffled. 
The  old  general  listened  for  some  time  to  the  discussion,  and 
then  asked  the  parson  if  he  had  read  Captain  Morris's,  or 
George  Stevens's,  or  Anacreon  Moore's  bacchanalian  songs? 
On  the  other  replying  in  the  negative,  "Oh,  then,"  said  the 
general,  with  a  sagacious  nod,  "  If  you  want  a  drinking  song, 
lean  furnish  you  with  the  latest  collection  —  I  did  not  know 
you  had  a  turn  for  those  kind  of  things ;  and  I  can  lend  you 
the  Eucylopseclia  of  Wit  into  the  bargain.  I  never  travel  with- 
out them  ;  they're  excellent  reading  at  an  inn." 

It  would  not  be  easy  to  describe  the  odd  look  of  surprise  and 
perplexity  of  the  parson,  at  this  proposal ;  or  the  difficulty  the 
Squire  had  in  making  the  general  comprehend,  that  though  a 
jovial  song  of  the  present  day  was  but  a  foolish  sound  in  the 
ears  of  wisdom,  and  beneath  the  notice  of  a  learned  man,  yet 
a  trowl,  written  by  a  tosspot  several  hundred  years  since,  was  a 
matter  worthy  of  the  gravest  research,  and  enough  to  set 
whole  colleges  by  the  ears. 

I  have  since  pondered  much  on  this  matter,  and  have  figured 
to  myself  what  may  be  the  fate  of  our  current  literature,  when 
retrieved,  piecemeal,  by  future  antiquaries,  from  among  the 
rubbish  of  ages.  What  a  Magnus  Apollo,  for  instance,  will 
Moore  become,  among  sober  divines  and  dusty  schoolmen ! 
Even  his  festive  and  amatory  songs,  which  are  now  the  mere 
quickeners  of  our  social  moments,  or  the  delights  of  our  draw- 
ing-rooms, will  then  become  matters  of  laborious  research  and 
painful  collation.  How  many  a  grave  professor  will  then  wasta 
his  midnight  oil,  or  worry  his  brain  through  a  long  morning, 
endeavoring  to  restore  the  pure  text,  or  illustrate  the  biographi- 
cal hints  of  "  Come,  tell  me,  says  Rosa,  as  kissing  and  kissed  ;  " 
and  how  many  an  arid  old  bookworm,  like  the  worthy  little  par- 
sou,  will  give  up  in  despair,  after  vainly  striving  to  fill  up  some 
fatal  hiatus  in  "  Fanny  of  Timmol  "  ! 

Nor  is  it  merely  such  exquisite  authors  as  Moore  that  are 
doomed  to  consume  the  oil  of  future  antiquaries.  Many  a  poor 


64  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

scribbler,  who  is  now,  apparently,  sent  to  oblivion  by  pastry, 
cooks  and  cheese-mongers,  will  then  rise  again  in  fragments, 

id  flourish  in  learned  immortality. 

After  all,  thought  I,  time  is  not  such  an  invariable  destroyer 
as  he  is  represented.  If  he  pulls  down,  he  likewise  builds  up  ; 
if  he  impoverishes  one,  he  enriches  another ;  his  very  dilapida- 
tions furnish  matter  for  new  works  of  controversy,  and  his  rust 
is  more  precious  than  the  most  costly  gilding.  Under  his  plastic 
hand,  trifles  rise  into  importance  ;  the  nonsense  of  one  age  be- 
comes the  wisdom  of  another ;  the  levity  of  the  wit  gravitates 
into  the  learning  of  the  pedant,  and  an  ancient  farthing  moul« 

jrs  into  infinitely  more  value  than  a  modern  guinea. 


THE  FARM-HOUSE. 

"  Love  and  hay 

Are  thick  sown,  but  come  up  full  of  thistles." 

—  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

I  WAS  so  much  pleased  with  the  anecdotes  which  were  told 
me  of  Ready-Money  Jack  Tibbets,  that  I  got  Master  Simon,  a 
day  or  two  since,  to  take  me  to  his  house.  It  was  an  old- 
fashioned  farm-house  built  of  brick,  with  curiously  twisted 
chimneys.  It  stood  at  a  little  distance  from  the  road,  with  a 
southern  exposure,  looking  upon  a  soft  green  slope  of  meadow. 
There  was  a  small  garden  in  front,  with  a  row  of  bee-hives 
humming  among  beds  of  sweet  herbs  and  flowers.  Well-scoured 
milking  tubs,  with  bright  copper  hoops,  hung  on  the  garden 
paling.  Fruit  trees  were  trained  up  against  the  cottage,  and 
pots  of  flowers  stood  in  the  windows.  A  fat,  superannuated 
mastiff  lay  in  the  sunshine  at  the  door  ;  with  a  sleek  cat  sleep- 
ing peacefully  across  him. 

Mr.  Tibbets  was  from  home  at  the  time  of  our  calling,  but 
we  were  received  with  hearty  and  homely  welcome  by  his  wife ; 
a  notable,  motherly  woman,  and  a  complete  pattern  for  wives  ; 
since,  according  to  Master  Simon's  account,  she  never  contra- 
dicts honest  Jack,  and  yet  manages  to  have  her  own  way,  and 
to  control  him  in  every  thing. 

She  received  us  in  the  main  room  of  the  uouse,  a  kind  of 
parlor  and  hall,  with  great  brown  beams  of  timber  across  it, 
which  Mr.  Tibbets  is  apt  to  point  out  with  some  exultation, 
observing,  that  they  don't  put  such  timber  in  bouses  now-a- 


THE  F ARM-HOUSE.  65 

days.  The  furniture  was  old-fashioned,  strong,  and  highly 
polished  ;  the  walls  were  hung  with  colored  prints  of  the  story 
of  the  Prodigal  Son,  who  was  represented  in  a  red  coat  and 
leather  breeches.  Over  the  fireplace  was  a  blunderbuss,  and 
a  hard-favored  likeness  of  Ready-Money  Jack,  taken  when  he 
was  a  young  man,  by  the  same  artist  that  painted  the  tavern 
sign  ;  his  mother  having  taken  a  notion  that  the  Tibbets'  had 
as  much  right  to  have  a  gallery  of  family  portraits  as  the  folks 
at  the  Hall. 

The  good  dame  pressed  us  very  much  to  take  some  refresh- 
ment, and  tempted  us  with  a  variety  of  household  dainties,  so 
that  we  were  glad  to  compound  by  tasting  some  of  her  home- 
made wines.  While  we  were  there,  the  son  and  heir-apparent 
came  home ;  a  good-looking  young  fellow,  and  something  of  a 
rustic  beau.  He  took  us  over  the  premises,  and  showed  us  the 
whole  establishment.  An  air  of  homely  but  substantial  plenty 
prevailed  throughout ;  every  thing  was  of  the  best  materials, 
and  in  the  best  condition.  Nothing  was  out  of  place,  or  ill 
made ;  and  you  saw  everywhere  the  signs  of  a  man  that  took 
care  to  have  the  worth  of  his  money,  and  paid  as  he  went. 

The  farm-yai-d  was  well  stocked  ;  under  a  shed  was  a  taxed 
cart,  in  trim  order,  in  which  Ready-Money  Jack  took  his  wife 
about  the  country.  His  well-fed  horse  neighed  from  the  stable, 
and  when  led  out  into  the  yard,  to  use  the  words  of  young  Jack, 
"  he  shone  like  a  bottle ;  "  for  he  said  the  old  man  made  it  a 
rule  that  every  thing  about  him  should  fare  as  well  as  he  did 
himself. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  pride  which  the  young  fellow  seemed 
to  have  of  his  father.  He  gave  us  several  particulars  concern- 
ing his  habits,  which  were  pretty  much  to  the  effect  of  those  I 
have  already  mentioned.  He  had  never  suffered  an  account  to 
stand  in  his  life,  always  providing  the  money  before  he  pur- 
chased any  thing ;  and,  if  possible,  paying  in  gold  and  silver. 
He  had  a  great  dislike  to  paper  money,  and  seldom  went  with- 
out a  considerable  sum  in  gold  about  him.  On  my  observing 
that  it  was  a  wonder  he  had  never  been  waylaid  and  robbed, 
the  young  fellow  smiled  at  the  idea  of  any  one  venturing  upon 
such  an  exploit,  for  I  believe  he  thinks  the  old  man  would  be 
a  match  for  Robin  Hood  and  all  his  gang. 

I  have  noticed  that  Master  Simon  seldom  goes  into  any  house 
without  having  a  world  of  private  talk  with  some  one  or  other 
of  the  family,  being  a  kind  of  universal  counsellor  and  confi- 
dant. We  had  not  been  long  at  the  farm,  before  the  old  dame 
got  him  into  a  corner  of  her  parlor,  where  they  had  a  long, 


66  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

whispering  conference  together ;  in  which  I  saw,  by  his  shrugs, 
that  there  were  some  dubious  matters  discussed,  and  by  his  nods 
that  he  agreed  with  every  thing  she  said. 

After  we  had  come  out,  the  young  man  accompanied  us  a  little 
distance,  and  then,  drawing  Master  Simon  aside  into  a  green 
lane,  they  walked  and  talked  together  for  nearly  half  an  hour. 
Master  Simon,  who  has  the  usual  propensity  of  confidants  to 
blab  every  thing  to  the  next  friend  they  meet  with,  let  me  know- 
that  there  was  a  love  affair  in  question ;  the  young  fellow 
having  been  smitten  with  the  charms  of  Phrebe  Wilkius,  the 
pretty  niece  of  the  housekeeper  at  the  Hall.  Like  most  other 
love  concerns,  it  had  brought  its  troubles  and  perplexities. 
Dame  Tibbets  had  long  been  on  intimate,  gossiping  terms  with 
the  housekeeper,  who  often  visited  the  farm-house ;  but  when 
the  neighbors  spoke  to  her  of  the  likelihood  of  a  match  between 
her  son  and  Phoebe  Wilkins,  "  Marry  come  up  !  "  she  scouted 
the  very  idea.  The  girl  had  acted  as  lady's  maid  ;  and  it  was 
beneath  the  blood  of  the  Tibbets',  who  had  lived  on  their  own 
lands  time  out  of  mind,  and  owed  reverence  and  thanks  to  no- 
body, to  have  the  heir-apparent  marry  a  servant ! 

These  vaporings  had  faithfully  been  carried  to  the  house- 
keeper's ear,  by  one  of  their  mutual  go-between  friends.  The 
old  housekeeper's  blood,  if  not  as  ancient,  was  as  quick  as  that 
of  Dame  Tibbets.  She  had  been  accustomed  to  carry  a  high 
head  at  the  Hall,  and  among  the  villagers ;  and  her  faded 
brocade  rustled  with  indignation  at  the  slight  cast  upon  her 
alliance  by  the  wife  of  a  petty  farmer.  She  maintained  that 
her  niece  had  been  a  companion  rather  than  a  waiting-maid  to 
the  young  ladies.  "Thank  heavens,  she  was  not  obliged  to 
work  for  her  living,  and  was  as  idle  as  any  young  lady  in  the 
land :  and  when  somebody  died,  would  receive  something  that 
would  be  worth  the  notice  of  some  folks,  with  all  their  ready 
money." 

A  bitter  feud  had  thus  taken  place  between  the  two  worthy 
dames,  and  the  young  people  were  forbidden  to  think  of  one 
another.  As  to  young  Jack,  he  was  too  much  in  love  to  reason 
upon  the  matter ;  and  being  a  little  heady,  and  not  standing  in 
much  awe  of  his  mother,  was  ready  to  sacrifice  the  whole  dignity 
of  the  Tibbets'  to  his  passion.  He  had  lately,  however,  had  a 
violent  quarrel  with  his  mistress,  in  consequence  of  some  co- 
quetry on  her  part,  and  at  present  stood  aloof.  The  politic 
mother  vas  exerting  all  her  ingenuity  to  widen  this  accidental 
breach ;  but,  as  is  most  commonly  the  case,  the  more  she  med- 
dled with  this  perverse  inclination  of  her  son,  the  stronger  it 


HORSEMANSHIP.  67 

grew.  In  the  mean  time,  old  Ready- Money  was  kept  completely 
iu  the  dark ;  both  parties  were  in  awe  and  uncertainty  as  to 
what  might  be  his  way  of  taking  the  matter,  and  dreaded  to 
awaken  the  sleeping  lion.  Between  father  and  son,  therefore, 
the  worthy  Mrs.  Tibbets  was  full  of  business,  and  at  her  wit's 
end.  It  was  true  there  was  no  great  danger  of  honest  Ready- 
Money's  finding  the  thing  out,  if  left  to  himself  ;  for  he  was  of 
a  most  unsuspicious  temper,  and  by  no  means  quick  of  appre- 
hension ;  but  there  was  daily  risk  of  his  attention  being  aroused, 
by  those  cobwebs  which  his  indefatigable  wife  was  continually 
spinning  about  his  nose. 

Such  is  the  distracted  state  of  politics,  in  the  domestic  em- 
pire of  Ready-Money  Jack  ;  which  only  shows  the  intrigues  and 
internal  dangers  to  which  the  best-regulated  governments  are 
liable.  In  this  perplexed  situation  of  their  affairs,  both  mother 
and  son  have  applied  to  Master  Simon  for  counsel ;  and,  with 
all  his  experience  in  meddling  with  other  people's  concerns,  he 
finds  it  an  exceedingly  difficult  part  to  play,  to  agree  with  both 
parties,  seeing  that  their  opinions  and  wishes  are  so  diametri- 
cally opposite. 


HORSEMANSHIP. 

A  coach  was  a  »trange  monster  in  those  days,  and  the  sight  of  one  put  both  hone  and 
man  into  amazement.  Some  said  it  was  a  great  crabshell  brought  out  of  China,  and  eome 
imagined  it  to  be  one  of  the  pagan  temples,  in  which  the  canibala  adored  the  divell.— 
TATLOR,  THB  WATEB  POBT. 

I  HAVE  made  casual  mention,  more  than  once,  of  one  of  the 
Squire's  antiquated  retainers,  olcM^hristVj.  the  huntsman.  I 
find  that  his  crabbed  humor  is  a  source  of  much  entertainment 
among  the  young  men  of  the  family  ;  the  Oxonian,  particularly, 
takes  a  mischievous  pleasure,  now  and  then,  in  slyly  rubbing 
the  old  man  against  the  grain,  and  then  smoothing  him  down 
again ;  for  the  old  fellow  is  as  ready  to  bristle  up  his  back  as 
a  porcupine.  He  rides  a  venerable  hunter  called  Pepper,  which 
is  a  counterpart  of  himself,  a  heady  cross-grained  animal,  that 
frets  the  flesh  off  its  bones ;  bites,  kicks,  and  plays  all  manner 
of  villanous  tricks.  He  is  as  tough,  and  nearly  as  old  as  his 
rider,  who  has  ridden  him  time  out  of  mind,  and  is,  indeed,  the 
only  one  that  can  do  any  thing  with  him.  Sometimes,  however, 
they  have  a  complete  quarrel,  and  a  dispute  for  mastery,  and 
then,  I  am  told,  it  is  as  good  as  a  farce  to  see  the  heat  they 


68  BBACEBRIDOE  HALL. 

both  get  into,  and  the  wrong-headed  contest  that  ensues ;  for 
they  are  quite  knowing  in  each  other's  ways,  and  in  the  arc 
of  teasing  and  fretting  each  other.  Notwithstanding  these 
doughty  brawls,  however,  there  is  nothing  that  nettles  old 
Christy  sooner  than  to  question  the  merits  of  the  horse  ;  which 
he  upholds  as  tenaciously  as  a  faithful  husband  will  vindicate 
the  virtues  of  the  termagant  spouse,  that  gives  him  a  curtain 
lecture  every  night  of  his  life. 

The  young  men  call  old  Christy  their  "  professor  of  equita- 
tion;" and  in  accounting  for  the  appellation,  they  let  me  into 
some  particulars  of  the  Squire's  mode  of  bringing  up  his 
children.  There  is  an  odd  mixture  of  eccentricity  and  good 
sense  in  all  the  opinions  of  my  worthy  host.  His  mind  is  like 
modern  Gothic,  where  plain  brick-work  is  set  off  with  pointed 
arches  and  quaint  tracery.  Though  the  main  ground-work  of 
his  opinions  is  correct,  yet  he  has  a  thousand  little  notions, 
picked  up  from  old  books,  which  stand  out  whimsically  on  the 
surface  of  his  mind. 

Thus,  in  educating  his  boys,  he  chose  Peacham,  Markham, 
and  such  like  old  English  writers,  for  his  manuals.  At  an 
early  age  he  took  the  lads  out  of  their  mother's  hands,  who 
was  disposed,  as  mothers  are  apt  to  be,  to  make  fine,  orderly 
children  of  them,  that  should  keep  out  of  sun  and  rain  and 
never  soil  their  hands,  nor  tear  their  clothes. 

In  place  of  this,  the  Squire  turned  them  loose  to  run  free 
and  wild  about  the  park,  without  heeding  wind  or  weather. 
He  was,  also,  particularly  attentive  in  making  them  bold  and 
expert  horsemen ;  and  these  were  the  days  when  old  Christy, 
the  huntsman,  enjoyed  great  importance,  as  the  lads  were  put 
under  his  care  to  practise  them  at  the  leaping-bars,  and  to  keep 
an  eye  upon  them  in  the  chase. 

The  Squire  always  objected  to  their  riding  in  carriages  of  any 
kind,  and  is  still  a  little  tenacious  on  this  point.  He  often  rails 
against  the  universal  use  of  carriages,  and  quotes  the  words  of 
honest  Nashe  to  that  effect.  "  It  was  thought,"  says  Nashe,  in 
his  Quaternio,  "  a  kind  of  solecism,  and  to  savor  of  effeminacy, 
for  a  young  gentleman  in  the  flourishing  time  of  his  age  to 
creep  into  a  coach,  and  to  shroud  himself  from  wind  and 
weather:  our  great  delight  was  to  outbrave  the  blustering 
Boreas  upon  a  great  horse  ;  to  arm  and  prepare  ourselves  to 
go  with  Mars  and  Bellona  into  the  field,  was  our  sport  and 
pastime  ;  coaches  and  caroches  we  left  unto  them  for  whom 
they  were  first  invented,  for  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  decrepit 
age  and  impotent  people." 


HORSEMANSHIP.  69 

The  Squire  insists  that  the  English  gentlemen  have  lost 
much  of  their  hardiness  and  manhood,  since  the  introduction  of 
carriages.  "Compare,"  he  will  say,  "the  fine  gentleman  of 
former  times,  ever  on  horseback,  booted  and  spurred,  and 
travel-stained,  but  open,  frank,  manly,  and  chivalrous,  with 
the  fine  gentleman  of  the  present  day,  full  of  affectation  and 
effeminacy,  rolling  along  a  turnpike  in  his  voluptuous  vehicle. 
The  young  men  of  those  days  were  rendered  brave,  and  lofty, 
and  generous  in  their  notions,  by  almost  living  in  their  saddles, 
and  having  their  foaming  steeds  '  like  proud  seas  under  them.' 
There  is  something,"  he  adds,  "  in  bestriding  a  fine  horse 
that  makes  a  man  feel  more  than  mortal.  He  seems  to  have 
doubled  his  nature,  and  to  have  added  to  his  own  courage  and 
sagacity  the  power,  the  speed,  and  stateliness  of  the  superb 
animal  on  which  he  is  mounted." 

"It  is  a  great  delight,"  says  old  Nashe,  "to  see  a  young 
gentleman  with  his  skill  and  cunning,  by  his  voice,  rod,  and 
spur,  better  to  manage  and  to  command  the  great  Bucephalus, 
than  the  strongest  Milo,  with  all  his  strength  ;  one  while  to  see 
him  make  him  tread,  trot,  and  gallop  the  ring ;  and  one  after 
to  see  him  make  him  gather  up  roundly ;  to  bear  his  head  stead- 
ily ;  to  run  a  full  career  swiftly  ;  to  stop  a  sudden  lightly  ;  anon 
after  to  see  him  make  him  advance,  to  yorke,  to  go  back,  and 
sidelong,  to  turn  on  either  hand  ;  to  gallop  the  gallop  galliard ; 
to  do  the  capriole,  the  chambetta,  and  dance  the  curvetty." 

In  conformity  to  these  ideas,  the  Squire  had  them  all  on 
horseback  at  an  early  age,  and  made  them  ride,  slapdash,  about 
the  country,  without  flinching  at  hedge,  or  ditch,  or  stone  wall, 
to  the  imminent  danger  of  their  necks. 

Even  the  fair  Julia  was  partially  included  in  this  system  : 
and,  under  the  instructions  of  old  Christy,  has  become  one  of 
the  best  horsewomen  in  the  county.  The  Squire  says  it  is 
better  than  all  the  cosmetics  and  sweeteners  of  the  breath  that 
ever  were  invented.  He  extols  the  horsemanship,  of  the  ladies 
in  former  times,  when  Queen  Elizabeth  would  scarcely  suffer 
the  rain  to  stop  her  accustomed  ride.  "And  then  think,"  he 
will  say,  "  what  nobler  and  sweeter  beings  it  made  them. 
What  a  difference  must  there  be,  both  in  mind  and  body,  be- 
tween a  joyous,  high-spirited  dame  of  those  days,  glowing  with 
health  and  exercise,  freshened  by  every  breeze,  seated  loftily 
and  gracefully  on  her  saddle,  with  plume  on  head,  and  hawk  on 
hand,  and  her  descendant  of  the  present  day,  the  pale  victim  of 
routs  and  ball-rooms,  sunk  languidly  in  one  corner  of  an  ener- 
vating carriage." 


70  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

The  Squire's  equestrian  system  has  been  attended  with  great 
success ;  for  his  sons,  having  passed  through  the  whole  course 
of  instruction  without  breaking  neck  or  limb,  are  now  health- 
ful, spirited,  and  active,  and  have  the  true  Englishman's  love 
for  a  horse.  If  their  manliness  and  frankness  are  praised  in 
their  father's  hearing,  he  quotes  the  old  Persian  maxim,  and 
says,  they  have  been  taught  "to  ride,  to  shoot,  and  to  speak 
the  truth." 

It  is  true,  the  Oxonian  has  now  and  then  practised  the  old 
gentleman's  doctrines  a  little  in  the  extreme.  He  is  a  gay 
youngster,  rather  fonder  of  his  horse  than  his  book,  with  a  lit- 
tle dash  of  the  dandy ;  though  the  ladies  all  declare  that  he  is 
"  the  flower  of  the  flock."  The  first  year  that  he  was  sent  to 
Oxford,  he  had  a  tutor  appointed  to  overlook  him,  a  dry  chip 
of  the  university.  When  he  returned  home  in  the  vacation, 
the  Squire  made  many  inquiries  about  how  he  liked  his  college, 
his  studies,  and  his  tutor. 

"  Oh,  as  to  my  tutor,  sir,  I've  parted  with  him  some  tim« 
since." 

"  You  have  !  and,  pray,  why  so?  " 

"Oh,  sir,  hunting  was  all  the  gc  at  our  college,  and  I  was 
a  little  short  of  funds ;  so  I  discharged  my  tutor,  and  took  a 
horse,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  I  was  not  aware  of  that,  Tom,"  said  the  Squire,  mildly. 

When  Tom  returned  to  college,  his  allowance  was  doubled, 
that  he  might  be  enabled  to  keep  both  horse  and  tutor. 


LOVE  SYMPTOMS. 

I  will  now  begin  to  6igh,  read  poets,  look  pale,  go  neatly,  and  be  most  apparently  in 
love.  —  MARSTON. 

I  SHOULD  not  be  surprised,  if  we  should  have  another  pair  of 
turtles  at  the  Hall ;  for  Master  Simon  has  informed  me,  in  great 
confidence,  that  he  suspects  the  general  of  some  design  upon 
the  susceptible  heart  of  Lady  Lillycraft.  I  have,  indeed,  no- 
ticed a  growing  attention  and  courtesy  in  the  veteran  towards 
her  ladyship ;  he  softens  very  much  in  her  company,  sits  by 
her  at  table,  and  entertains  her  with  long  stories  about  Sering- 
apatam,  and  pleasant  anecdotes  of  the  Mulligatawney  club.  I 
have  even  seen  him  present  her  with  a  full-blown  rose  from  the 
hot-house,  in  a  style  of  the  most  captivating  gallantry,  and  it 


LOVE  SYMPTOMS.  71 

was  accepted  with  great  suavity  and  graciousness  ;  for  her  lady- 
ship delights  in  receiving  the  homage  and  attention  of  the  sex. 

Indeed,  the  general  was  one  of  the  earliest  admirers  that 
dangled  in  her  train,  during  her  short  reign  of  beauty ;  and 
they  flirted  together  for  half  a  season  in  London,  some  thirty 
or  forty  years  since.  She  reminded  him  lately,  in  the  course 
of  a  conversation  about  former  days,  of  the  time  when  he  used 
to  ride  a  white  horse,  and  to  canter  so  gallantly  by  the  side  of 
her  carriage  in  Hyde  Park ;  whereupon  I  have  remai'ked  that 
the  veteran  has  regularly  escorted  her  since,  when  she  rides  out 
on  horseback  ;  and,  I  suspect,  he  almost  persuades  himself  that 
he  makes  as  captivating  an  appearance  as  in  his  youthful  days. 

It  would  be  an  interesting  and  memorable  circumstance  in 
the  chronicles  of  Cupid,  if  this  spark  of  the  tender  passion,  after 
lying  dormant  for  such  a  length  of  time,  should  again  be  fanned 
into  a  flame,  from  amidst  the  ashes  of  two  burnt-out  hearts.  It 
would  be  an  instance  of  perdurable  fidelity,  worthy  of  being 
placed  beside  those  recorded  in  one  of  the  Squire's  favorite 
tomes,  commemorating  the  constancy  of  the  olden  times ;  in 
which  times,  we  are  told,  "•  Men  and  wymmen  coulde  love 
togyders  seven  yeres,  and  no  licours  lustes  were  betwene  them, 
and  thenne  was  love,  trouthe,  and  feythfulnes ;  and  lo  in  lyke 
wyse  was  used  love  in  Kyng  Arthur's  dayes." ' 

Still,  however,  this  may  be  nothing  but  a  little  venerable 
flirtation,  the  general  being  a  veteran  dangler,  and  the  good 
lady  habituated  to  these  kind  of  attentions.  Master  Simon, 
on  the  other  hand,  thinks  the  general  is  looking  about  him  with 
the  wary  eye  of  an  old  campaigner ;  and,  now  that  he  is  on  the 
wane,  is  desirous  of  getting  into  warm  winter-quarters.  Much 
allowance,  however,  must  be  made  for  Master  Simon's  uneasi- 
ness on  the  subject,  for  he  looks  on  Lady  Lillycraft's  house  as 
one  of  his  strongholds,  where  he  is  lord  of  the  ascendant ;  and, 
with  all  his  admiration  of  the  general,  I  much  doubt  whether  he 
would  like  to  see  him  lord  of  the  lad}'  and  the  establishment. 

There  are  certain  other  symptoms,  notwithstanding,  that  give 
an  air  of  probability  to  Master  Simon's  intimations.  Thus, 
for  instance,  I  have  observed  that  the  general  has  been  very 
assiduous  in  his  attentions  to  her  ladyship's  dogs,  and  has 
several  times  exposed  his  fingers  to  imminent  jeopardy,  in 
attempting  to  pat  Beauty  on  the  head.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
his  advances  to  the  mistress  will  be  more  favorably  received,  as 
ail  his  overtures  towards  a  caress  are  greeted  by  the  pestilent 

*  Morte  d' Arthur. 


72  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

little  cur  with  a  wary  kindling  of  the  eye,  and  a  most  venomous 
growl. 

He  has,  moreover,  been  very  complaisant  towards  my  lady's 
gentlewoman,  the  immaculate  Mrs.  Hannah,  whom  he  used  to 
speak  of  in  a  way  that  I  do  not  choose  to  mention.  Whether 
she  has  the  same  suspicious  with  Master  Simon  or  not,  I  cannot 
say  ;  but  she  receives  his  civilities  with  no  better  grace  than  the 
implacable  Beauty ;  unscrewing  her  mouth  into  a  most  acid 
smile,  and  looking  as  though  she  could  bite  a  piece  out  of  him. 
In  short,  the  poor  general  seems  to  have  as  formidable  foes  to 
contend  with,  as  a  hero  of  ancient  fairy  tale  ;  who  had  to  fight 
his  way  to  his  enchanted  princess  through  ferocious  monsters  of 
every  kind,  and  to  encounter  the  brimstone  terrors  of  some  fiery 
dragon. 

There  is  still  another  circumstance,  which  inclines  me  to  give 
very  considerable  credit  to  Master  Simon's  suspicions.  Lady 
Lillycraft  is  very  fond  of  quoting  poetry,  and  the  conversation 
often  turns  upon  it,  on  which  occasions  the  general  is  thrown 
completely  out.  It  happened  the  other  day  that  Spenser's 
Fairy  Queen  was  the  theme  for  the  greater  part  of  the  morning, 
and  the  poor  general  sat  perfectly  silent.  I  found  him  not 
long  after  in  the  library,  with  spectacles  on  nose,  a  book  in  his 
hand,  and  fast  asleep.  On  my  approach,  he  awoke,  slipt  the 
spectacles  into  his  pocket,  and  began  to  read  very  attentively. 
After  a  little  while  he  put  a  paper  in  the  place,  and  laid  the 
volume  aside,  which  I  perceived  was  the  Fairy  Queen.  I  have 
had  the  curiosity  to  watch  how  he  got  on  in  his  poetical  studies  ; 
but  though  I  have  repeatedly  seen  him  with  the  book  in  his 
hand,  yet  I  find  the  paper  has  not  advanced  above  three  or 
four  pages  ;  the  general  being  extremely  apt  to  fall  asleep  when 
he  reads. 


FALCONRY. 

Ne  is  there  hawk  which  mantleth  on  her  perch, 

Whether  high  tow'ring  or  accousting  low, 
But  I  the  measure  of  her  flight  doe  search, 

And  all  her  prey  and  all  her  diet  know.  —  SPENSER. 

THERE  are  several  grand  sources  of  lamentation  furnished 
to  the  worthy  Squire,  by  the  improvement  of  society  and 
the  grievous  advancement  of  knowledge ;  among  which 
none,  I  believe,  causes  him  more  frequent  regret  than  the 
mj)owder.  To  this  he  continually 


FALCONET.  78 

traces  the  decay  of  some  favorite  custom,  and,  indeed,  the 
general  downfall  of  all  chivalrous  and  romantic  usages.  "  Eng- 
lish soldiers,"  he  says,  "  have  never  been  the  men  they  were  in 
the  days  of  the  -cross-bow  and  the  long-bow ;  when  they  de- 
pended upon  the  strength  of  the  arm,  and  the  English  archer 
could  draw  a  cloth-yard  shaft  to  the  head.  These  were  the 
times  when,  at  the  battles  of  Cressy,  Poictiers,  and  Agiucourt, 
the  French  chivalry  was  completely  destroyed  by  the  bowmen 
of  England.  The  yeomanry,  too,  have  never  been  what  they 
were,  when,  in  times  of  peace,  they  were  constantly  exercised 
with  the  bow,  and  archery  was  a  favorite  holiday  pastime." 

Among  the  other  evils  which  have  followed  in  the  train  of 
this  fatal  invention  of  gunpowder,  the  Squire  classes  the  total 
decline  of  the  noble  art  of  falconry.  "  Shooting,"  he  says,  ••  is 
a  skulking,  treacherous,  solitary  sport,  in  comparison ;  but 
hawking  was  a  gallant,  open,  sunshiny  recreation ;  it  was  the 
generous  sport  of  hunting  carried  into  the  skies." 

"It  was,  moreover,"  he  says,  "according  to  Braithwaite, 
the  stately  amusement  of  '  high  and  mounting  spirits  ; '  for  as  the 
old  AVelsh  proverb  affirms  in  those  times,  k  you  might  know  a 
gentleman  by  his  hawk,  horse,  and  greyhound.'  Indeed,  a 
cavalier  was  seldom  seen  abroad  without  his  hawk  on  his  fist ; 
and  even  a  lady  of  rank  did  not  think  herself  completely 
equipped,  in  riding  forth,  unless  she  had  her  tassel-gentei  held  by 
jesses  on  her  delicate  hand.  It  was  thought  in  those  excellent 
days,  according  to  an  old  writer,  '  quite  sufficient  for  noblemen 
to  winde  their  horn,  and  to  carry  their  hawke  fair;  and  leave 
study  and  learning  to  the  children  of  mean  people.'  " 

Knowing  the  good  Squire's  hobby,  therefore,  I  have  not  been 
surprised  at  finding  that,  among  the  various  recreations  of  for- 
mer times  which  he  has  endeavored  to  revive  in  the  little  world 
in  which  he  rules,  he  has  bestowed  great  attention  on  the  noble 
art  of  falconry.  In  this  he,  of  course,  has  been  seconded  by  his 
indefatigable  coadjutor,  M.ajtej_.Simoo ;  and  even  the  parson 
has  thrown  considerable  light  on  their  labors,  by  various  hints 
on  the  subject,  which  he  has  met  with  in  old  English  works. 
As  to  the  precious  work  of  that  famous  dame,  Juliana  Barnes ; 
the  Gentleman's  Academic,  by  Markham ;  and  the  other  well- 
known  treatises  that  were  the  manuals  of  ancient  sportsmen, 
they  have  them  at  their  fingers'  ends ;  but  they  have  more 
especially  studied  some  old  tapestry  in  the  house,  whereon  is 
represented  a  party  of  cavaliers  and  stately  dames,  with  doub- 
lets, caps,  and  flaunting  feathers,  mounted  on  horse,  with 
attendants  on  foot,  all  in  animated  pursuit  of  the  game. 


74  BEACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

The  Squire  has  discountenanced  the  killing  of  any  hawks  in 
his~nelghborhood,  but  gives  a  liberal  bounty  for  all  that  are 
brought  him  alive ;  so  that  the  Hall  is  well  stocked  with  all 
kinds  of  birds  of  prey.  On  these  he  and  Master  Simon  have 
exhausted  their  patience  and  ingenuity,  endeavoring  to  "re- 
claim "  them,  as  it  is  termed,  and  to  train  them  up  for  the  sport ; 
but  they  have  met  with  continual  checks  and  disappointments. 
Their  feathered  school  has  turned  out  the  most  untractable  and 
graceless  scholars :  nor  is  it  the  least  of  their  labor  to  drill 
the  retainers  who  were  to  act  as  ushers  under  them,  and  to  take 
immediate  charge  of  these  refractory  birds.  Old  Christy  and 
the  gamekeeper  both,  for  a  time,  set  their  faces  against  the 
whole  plan  of  education  ;  Christy  having  been  nettled  at  hearing 
what  he  terms  a  wild-goose  chase  put  on  a  par  with  a  fox-hunt ; 
and  the  gamekeeper  having  always  been  accustomed  to  look 
upon  hawks  as  arrant  poachers,  which  it  was  his  duty  to  shoot 
down,  and  nail,  in  terrorern,  against  the  out-houses. 

Christy  has  at  length  taken  the  matter  in  hand,  but  has  done 
still  more  mischief  by  his  intermeddling.  He  is  as  positive  and 
wrong-headed  about  this,  as  he  is  about  hunting.  Master 
Simon  has  continual  disputes  with  him,  as  to  feeding  and 
training  the  hawks.  He  reads  to  him  long  passages  from  the 
old  authors  I  have  mentioned ;  but  Christy,  who  cannot  read, 
has  a  sovereign  contempt  for  all  book-knowledge,  and  persists 
in  treating  the  hawks  according  to  his  own  notions,  which  are 
drawn  from  his  experience,  in  younger  days,  in  the  rearing  of 
game-cocks. 

The  consequence  is,  that,  between  these  jarring  systems,  the 

.poor  birds  have  had  a  most  trying  and  unhappy  time  of  it. 

\Many  have  fallen  victims  to  Christy's  feeding  and  Master 
Simon's  physicking ;  for  the  latter  has  gone  to  work  secundum 
artem,  and  has  given  them  all  the  vomitings  and  scourings  laid 
down  in  the  books ;  never  were  poor  hawks  so  fed  and  phys- 
icked before.  Others  have  been  lost  by  being  but  half  "re- 
claimed," or  tamed;  for  on  being  taken  into  the  field,  they 
have  "  raked  "  after  the  game  quite  out  of  hearing  of  the  call, 
and  never  returned  to  school. 

All  these  disappointments  had  been  petty,  yet  sore  grievances 
to  the  Squire,  and  had  made  him  to  despond  about  success. 
He  has  lately,  however,  been  made  happy  b}*  the  receipt  of  a 
fine  Welsh  falcon,  which  Master  Simon  terms  a  stately  high- 
flyer. It  is  a  present  from  the  Squire's  friend,  Sir  Watkyn 
Williams  Wynne ;  and  is,  no  doubt,  a  descendant  of  some 
ancient  line  of  Welsh  princes  of  the  air,  that  have  long  lorded 


HA  WKING.  75 

it  over  their  kingdom  of  clouds,  from  Wynnstay  to  the  very 
summit  of  Snowden,  or  the  brow  of  Penmanmawr. 

Ever  since  the  Squire  received  this  invaluable  present,  he 
has  been  as  impatient  to  sally  forth  and  make  proof  of  it,  as 
was  Don  Quixote  to  assay  his  suit  of  armor.  There  have  been 
some  demurs  as  to  whether  the  bird  was  in  proper  health  and 
training  ;  but  these  have  been  overruled  by  the  vehement  desire 
to  play  with  a  new  toy ;  and  it  has  been  determined,  right  or 
wrong,  in  season  or  out  of  season,  to  have  a  day's  sport  in 
hawking  to-morrow. 

The  Hall,  as  usual,  whenever  the  Squire  is  about  to  make 
some  new  sally  on  his  hobby,  is  all  agog  with  the  thing.  Miss 
Templeton,  who  is  brought  up  in  reverence  for  all  her  guardi- 
an's humors,  has  proposed  to  be  of  the  party  ;  and  Lady  Lilly- 
craft  has  talked  also  of  riding  out  to  the  scene  of  action  and 
looking  on.  This  has  gratified  the  old  gentleman  extremely ; 
he  hails  it  as  an  auspicious  omen  of  the  revival  of  falconry,  and 
does  not  despair  but  the  time  will  come  when  it  will  be  again 
the  pride  of  a  fine  lady  to  carry  about  a  noble  falcon,  in  pref- 
erence to  a  parrot  or  a  lap-dog. 

I  have  amused  myself  with  the  bustling  preparations  of  that 
busy  spirit,  Master  Simon,  and  the  continual  thwartings  he 
receives  from  that  genuine  son  of  a  pepper-box,  old  Christy. 
The}'  have  had  half-a-dozen  consultations  about  how  the  hawk 
is  to  be  prepared  for  the  morning's  sport.  Old  Nimrod,  as 
usual,  has  always  got  in  a  pet,  upon  which  Master  Simon  has 
invariably  given  up  the  point,  observing,  in  a  good-humored 
tone,  "  Well,  well,  have  it  your  own  way,  Christy ;  only  don't 
put  yourself  in  a  passion;"  a  reply  which  always  nettles  the 
old  man  ten  tunes  more  than  ever. 


HAWKING. 

The  soaring  hawk,  from  fist  that  flies 

Her  falconer  doth  constrain 
Sometimes  to  range  the  ground  about 

To  find  her  out  again; 
And  if  by  sight  or  sound  of  bell, 

His  falcon  he  may  see, 
Wo  ho !  he  cries,  with  cheerful  voice  — 

The  gladdest  man  is  he.  —  Handful  of  Pleatant  Delitet. 


AT  an  early  hour  this  morning,  the  Hall  was  in  a  bustle  pre- 
paring for  the  sport  of  the  day.     I  heard  Master  Simon  whis- 


76  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

tling  and  singing  under  my  window  at  sunrise,  as  he  was  pre- 
paring the  jesses  for  the  hawk's  legs,  and  could  distinguish 
now  and  then  a  stanza  of  one  of  his  favorite  old  ditties : 


"  In  peascod  time,  when  hound  to  born 
Gives  note  that  buck  be  kill'd ; 
And  little  boy,  with  pipe  of  core, 
Is  tending  sheep  a-field,"  &c. 

A  hearty  breakfast,  well  flanked  by  cold  meats,  was  served  up 
in  the  great  hall.  The  whole  garrison  of  retainers  and  hangers- 
on  were  in  motion,  re-enforced  by  volunteer  idlers  from  the 
village.  The  horses  were  led  up  and  down  before  the  door; 
everybody  had  something  to  say,  and  something  to  do,  and 
hurried  hither  and  thither;  there  was  a  direful  yelping  of 
dogs  ;  some  that  were  to  accompany  us  being  eager  to  set  off. 
and  others  that  were  to  stay  at  home  being  whipped  back  to 
their  kennels.  In  short,  for  once,  the  good  Squire's  mansion 
might  have  .been  taken  as  a  good  specimen  of  one  of  the  ranti- 
pole  establishments  of  the  good  old  feudal  times. 

Breakfast  being  finished,  the  chivalry  of  the  Hall  prepared 
to  take  the  field.  The  fair  Julia  was  of  the  party,  in  a  hunting- 
dress,  with  a  light  plume  of  feathers  in  her  riding-hat.  As  she 
mounted  her  favorite  galloway,  I  remarked,  with  pleasure,  that 
old  Christy  forgot  his  usual  crustiness,  and  hastened  to  adjust 
her  saddle  and  bridle.  He  touched  his  cap,  as  she  smiled  on 
him,  and  thanked  him  ;  and  then,  looking  round  at  the  other 
attendants,  gave  a  knowing  nod  of  his  head,  in  which  I  read 
pride  and  exultation  at  the  charming  appearance  of  his  pupil. 

Lady  Lillycraft  had  likewise  determined  to  witness  the  sport. 
She  was  di'essed  in  her  broad  white  beaver,  tied  under  the  chin, 
and  a  riding-habit  of  the  last  century.  She  rode  her  sleek, 
ambling  pony,  whose  motion  was  as  easy  as  a  rocking-chair ; 
and  was  gallantly  escorted  by  the  general,  who  looked  not 
unlike  one  of  the  doughty  heroes  in  the  old  prints  of  the  battle 
of  Blenheim.  The  parson,  likewise,  accompanied  her  on  the 
other  side  ;  for  this  was  a  learned  amusement,  in  which  he  took 
great  interest ;  and,  indeed,  had  given  much  counsel,  from  his 
knowledge  of  old  customs. 

At  length  every  thing  was  arranged,  and  off  we  set  from  the 
Hall.  The  exercise  on  horseback  puts  one  in  fine  spirits :  and 
the  scene  was  gay  and  animating.  The  young  men  of  the  fam- 
ily accompanied  Miss  Templetou.  She  sat  lightly  and  grace- 
fully in  her  saddle,  her  plumes  dancing  and  waving  in  the  air; 


HA  WRING.  77 

and  the  group  had  a  charming  effect,  as  they  appeared  and  dis- 
appeared among  the  trees,  cantering  along,  with  the  bounding 
animation  of  youth.  The  Squire  and  Master  Simon  rode  to- 
gether, accompanied  by  old  Christy,  mounted  on  Pepper.  The 
latter  bore  the  hawk  on  his  fist,  as  he  insisted  the  bird  was 
most  accustomed  to  him.  There  was  a  rabble  rout  on  foot, 
composed  of  retainers  from  the  Hall,  and  some  idlers  from  the 
village,  with  two  or  three  spaniels,  for  the  purpose  of  starting 
the  game. 

A  kind  of  corps  de  reserve  came  on  quietly  in  the  rear,  com- 
posed of  Lady  Lillycraft,  General  Harbottle,  the  parson,  and  a 
fat  footman.  Her  ladyship  ambled  gently  along  on  her  pony, 
while  the  general,  mounted  on  a  tall  hunter,  looked  down  upon 
her  with  an  air  of  the  most  protecting  gallantry. 

For  my  part,  being  no  sportsman,  I  kept  with  this  last  party, 
or  rather  lagged  behind,  that  I  might  take  in  the  whole  pic- 
ture ;  and  the  parson  occasionally  slackened  his  pace,  and 
jogged  on  in  company  with  me. 

The  sport  led  us  at  some  distance  from  the  Hall,  in  a  soft 
meadow,  reeking  with  the  moist  verdure  of  spring.  A  little 
river  ran  through  it,  bordered  by  willows,  which  had  put  forth 
their  tender  early  foliage.  The  sportsmen  were  in  quest  of 
herons,  which  were  said  to  keep  about  this  stream. 

There  was  some  disputing,  already,  among  the  leaders  of  the 
sport.  The  Squire,  Master  Simon,  and  old  Christy,  came  every 
now  and  then  to  a  pause,  to  consult  together,  like  the  field  offi- 
cers in  an  army ;  and  I  saw,  by  certain  motions  of  the  head, 
that  Christy  was  as  positive  as  any  old  wrong-headed  German 
commander. 

As  we  were  prancing  up  this  quiet  meadow,  every  sound  we 
made  was  answered  by  a  distinct  echo,  from  the  sunny  wall  of 
an  old  building,  on  the  opposite  margin  of  the  stream;  and 
I  paused  to  listen  to  this  ••  spirit  of  :i  sound,"  wliicli  .seems 
to  love  such  cmiet  and  beautiful  places^ The  pai 


such  quiet  and  beautiful  places.  The  parson  informed 
me  that  this  was  the  ruin  of  an  ancient  grange,  and  was 
supposed,  by  tie  country  people,  to  be  haunted  by  a  dobbie, 
a  kind  of  rural  sprite,  something  like  Robin  Goodfellow.  They 
often  fancied  the  echo  to  be  the  voice  of  the  dobbie  answer- 
ing them,  and  were  rather  shy  of  disturbing  it  after  dark.  He 
added,  that  the  Squire  was  very  careful  of  this  ruin,  on  ac- 
count of  the  superstition  connected  with  it.  As  I  considered 
this  local  habitation  of  an  "airy  nothing,"  I  called  to  mind 
the  fine  description  of  an  °,cho  in.  Webster's  Duchess  of 
Malfy: 


78  BBACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

"  Tond  side  o'  th'  river  lies  a  wall, 

Piece  of  a  cloister,  which,  in  my  opinion, 
Gives  the  best  echo  that  you  ever  heard : 
So  plain  in  the  distinction  of  our  words, 
That  many  have  supposed  it  a  spirit 
That  answers." 

The  parson  went  on  to  comment  on  a  pleasing  and  fanciful 
appellation  which  the  Jews  of  old  gave  to  the  echo,  which  they 
called  Bath-kool,  that  is  to  say,  "  the  daughter  of  the  voice  ;  " 
they  consMerecT  it  an  oracle,  supplying  in  the  second  temple 
the  want  of  the  urim  and  thummim,  with  which  the  first  was 
honored.1  The  little  man  was  just  entering  very  largely  and 
learnedly  upon  the  subject,  when  we  were  started  by  a  prodig- 
ious bawling,  shouting,  and  yelping.  A  flight  of  crows, 
alarmed  by  the  approach  of  our  forces,  had  suddenly  risen 
from  a  meadow ;  a  cry  was  put  up  by  the  rabble  rout  on  foot 
—  "Now,  Christy!  now  is  your  time,  Christy!"  The  Squire 
and  Master  Simon,  who  were  beating  up  the  river  banks  in 
quest  of  a  heron,  called  out  eagerly  to  Christy  to  keep  quiet ; 
the  old  man,  vexed  and  bewildered  by  the  confusion  of  voices, 
completely  lost  his  head ;  in  his  flurry  he  slipped  off  the  hood, 
cast  off  the  falcon,  and  away  flew  the  crows,  and  away  soared 
the  hawk. 

I  had  paused  on  a  rising  ground,  close  to  Lady  Lillycraft  and 
her  escort,  whence  1  had  a  good  view  of  the  sport.  I  was 
pleased  with  the  appearance  of  the  party  in  the  meadow,  rid- 
ing along  in  the  direction  that  the  bird  flew ;  their  bright  beam- 
ing faces  turned  up  to  the  bright  skies  as  they  watched  the 
game  ;  the  attendants  on  foot  scampering  along,  looking  up, 
and  calling  ®ut ;  and  the  dogs  bounding  and  yelping  with  Clam- 
orous sympathy. 

The  hawk  had  singled  out  a  quarry  from  among  the  carrion 
crew.  It  was  curious  to  see  the  efforts  of  the  two  birds  to  get 
above  each  other ;  one  to  make  the  fatal  swoop,  the  other  to 
avoid  it.  Now  they  crossed  athwart  a  bright  feathery  cloud, 
and  now  they  were  against  the  clear  blue  sky.  I  confess,  being 
no  sportsman,  I  was  more  interested  for  the  poor  bird  that  was 
striving  for  its  life,  than  for  the  hawk  that  was  playing  the  part 
of  a  mercenary  soldier.  At  length  the  hawk  got  the  upper 
hand,  and  made  a  rushing  stoop  at  her  quarry,  but  the  latter 
made  as  sudden  a  surge  downwards,  and  slanting  up  again, 
evaded  the  blow,  screaming  and  making  the  best  of  his  way 

i  Better's  Monde  enchant*. 


BA  WRING.  79 

for  a  dry  tree  on  the  brow  of  a  neighboring  hill ;  while  the 
hawk,  disappointed  of  her  blow,  soared  up  again  into  the  air, 
and  appeared  to  be  "raking  "  off.  It  was  in  vain  old  Christy 
called,  and  whistled,  and  endeavored  to  lure  her  down :  she 
paid  no  regard  to  him  ;  and,  indeed,  his  calls  were  drowned  in 
the  shouts  and  yelps  of  the  army  of  militia  that  had  followed 
him  into  the  field. 

Just  then  an  exclamation  from  Lady  Lillycraft  made  me  turn 
my  head.  I  beheld  a  complete  confusion  among  the  sportsmen 
in  the  little  vale  below  us.  They  were  galloping  and  running 
towards  the  edge  of  a  bank ;  and  I  was  shocked  to  see  Miss 
Templeton's  horse  galloping  at  large  without  his  rider.  I  rode 
to  the  place  to  which  the  others  were  hurrying,  and  when  I 
reached  the  bank,  which  almost  overhung  the  stream,  I  saw  at 
the  foot  of  it,  the  fair  Julia,  pale,  bleeding,  and  apparently 
lifeless,  supported  in  the  arms  of  her  frantic  lover.  „ 

In  galloping  heedlessly  along,  with  her  eyes  turned  upward,  j 
she  had  unwarily  approached  too  near  the  bank ;  it  had  given 
way  with  her,  and  she  and  her  horse  had  been  precipitated  to 
the  pebbled  margin  of  the  river. 

I  never  saw  greater  consternation.  The  captain  was  dis- 
tracted :  Lady  Lillycraft  fainting ;  the  Squire  in  dismay,  and 
Master  Simon  at  his  wit's  end.  The  beautiful  creature  at  length 
showed  signs  of  returning  life ;  she  opened  her  eyes ;  looked 
around  her  upon  the  anxious  group,  and  comprehending  in  a 
moment  the  nature  of  the  scene,  gave  a  sweet  smile,  and  put- 
ting her  hand  in  her  lover's,  exclaimed,  feebly,  "  I  am  not  much 
hurt,  Guy !  "  I  could  have  taken  her  to  my  heart  for  that 
single  exclamation. 

It  was  found,  indeed,  that  she  had  escaped  almost  miracu- 
lously, with  a  contusion  on  the  head,  a  sprained  ankle,  and 
some  slight  bruises.  After  her  wound  was  stanched,  she  was 
taken  to  a  neighboring  cottage,  until  a  carriage  could  be  sum- 
moned to  convey  her  home ;  and  when  this  had  arrived,  the 
cavalcade  which  had  issued  forth  so  gayly  on  this  enterprise, 
returned  slowly  and  pensively  to  the  Hall.  — ^_^ 

I  had  been  charmed  by  the  generous  spirit  shown  by  this 
young  creature,  who,  amidst  pain  and  danger,  had  been  anxious  /'    J   / 
only  to  relieve  the  distress  of  those  around  her.     I  was  grati-      J 
fied,  therefore,  by  the  universal  concern  displayed  by  the,.<clo- 
mestics  on  our  return.     They  came  crowding  down  the  avenue, 
each  eager  to  render  assistance.     The  butler  stood  read}'  with 
some  curiously  delicate  cordial ;  the  old  housekeeper  was  pro- 
vided with  half-a-dozen  nostrums,  prepared  by  her  own  handa, 


80  BRACES  RIDGE  HALL. 

according  to  the  family  receipt-book  ;  while  her  niece,  the  melt- 
ing Phoebe,  having  no  other  way  of  assisting,  stood  wringing  her 
hands,  and  weeping  aloud. 

The  most  material  effect  that  is  likely  to  follow  this  accident, 
Is  a  postponement  of  the  nuptials,  which  were  close  at  hand. 
Though  I  commiserate  the  impatience  of  the  captain  on  that 
account,  yet  I  shall  not  otherwise  be  sorry  at  the  delay,  as  it  will 
give  me  a  better  opportunity  of  studying  the  characters  here 
assembled,  with  which  I  grow  more  and  more  entertained. 

I  cannot  but  perceive  that  the  worthy  Squire  is  quite  discon- 
certed at  the  unlucky  result  of  his  hawking  experiment,  and 
this  unfortunate  illustration  of  his  eulogy  on  female  equitation. 
Old  Christy,  too,  is  very  waspish,  having  been  sorely  twitted  by 
Master  Simon  for  having  let  his  hawk  fly  at  carrion.  As  to  the 
falcon,  in  the  confusion  occasioned  by  the  fair  Julia's  disaster, 
the  bird  was  totally  forgotten.  I  make  no  doubt  she  has 
made  the  best  of  her  way  back  to  the  hospitable  Hall  of  Sir 
Watkyn  Williams  Wynne  ;  and  may  very  possibly,  at  this  present 
writing,  be  pluming  her  wings  among  the  breezy  bowers  of 
Wynnstay. 


ST.   MARK'S   EVE. 

O  't  is  a  fearful  thing  to  be  no  more. 

Or  if  to  be,  to  wander  after  death ! 

To  walk  as  spirits  do,  in  brakes  all  day, 

And  when  the  darkness  comes,  to  glide  in  paths 

That  lead  to  graves;  and  in  the  silent  vault, 

Where  lies  your  own  pale  shroud,  to  hover  o'er  It, 

Striving  to  enter  your  forbidden  corpse.  —  DRYDEIC. 

THE  conversation  this  evening  at  the  supper-table  took  a 
curious  turn,  on  the  subject  of  a  superstition,  formerly  very 
prevalent  in  this  part  of  the  country,  relative  to  the  present 
night  of  the  year,  which  is  the  Eve  of  St.  Mark's.  It  was  be- 
lieved, the  parson  informed  us,  that  if  any  one  would  watch  in 
the  church  porch  on  this  eve,  for  three  successive  years,  from 
eleven  to  one  o'clock  at  night,  he  would  see,  on  the  third 
r,  the  shades  of  those  of  the  parish  -who  :were  to  die  in  the 

urse  of  the  year,  pass  by  him  into  church,  clad  in  their  usual 
arel. 

Dismal  as  such  a  sight  would  be,  he  assured  us  that  it  was 
formerly  a  frequent  thing  for  persons  to  make  the  necessary 
vigils.  He  had  known  more  than  one  instance  in  his  time. 


.    ST.  MARE'S  EVE.  81 

One  old  woman,  who  pretended  to  have  seen  this  phantom  pro- 
cession, was  an  object  of  great  awe  for  the  whole  year  after- 
wards, and  caused  much  uneasiness  and  mischief.  If  she  shook 
her  head  mysteriously  at  a  person,  it  was  like  a  death-warrant ; 
and  she  had  nearly  caused  the  death  of  a  sick  person,  by  look- 
ing ruefully  in  at  the  window. 

There  was  also  an  old  man,  not  many  years  since,  of  a  sullen, 
melancholy  temperament,  who  had  kept  two  vigils,  and  began 
to  excite  some  talk  in  the  village,  when,  fortunately  for  the 
public  comfort,  he  died  shortly  after  his  third  watching ;  very 
probably  from  a  cold  that  he  had  taken,  as  the  night  was  tem- 
pestuous. It  was  reported  about  the  village,  however,  that  he 
had  seen  his  own  phantom  pass  by  him  into  the  church. 

This  led  to  the  mention  of  another  superstition  of  an  equally 
strange  and  melancholy  kind,  which,  however,  is  chiefly  con- 
fined  to  Wales.  It  is  respecting  what  are  called  corpse-candles^ 
little  wandering  fires,  of  a  pale  bluish  light,  that  move  about\ 
like  tapers  in  the  open  air,  and  are  supposed  to  designate  they 
way  some  corpse  is  to  go.  One  was  seen  at  Lauylar,  lateeartr 
night,  hovering  up  and  down,  along  the  bank  of  the  Istwith, 
and  was  watched  by  the  neighbors  until  they  were  tired,  and 
went  to  bed.  Not  long  afterwards  there  came  a  comely  coun- 
try lass,  from  Montgomeryshire,  to  see  her  friends,  who  dwelt 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  She  thought  to  ford  the 
stream  at  the  very  place  where  the  light  had  been  first  seen, 
but  was  dissuaded  on  account  of  the  height  of  the  flood.  She 
walked  to  and  fro  along  the  bank,  just  where  the  candle  had 
moved,  waiting  for  the  subsiding  of  the  water.  She  at  length 
endeavored  to  cross,  but  the  poor  girl  was  drowned  in  the 
attempt.1 

There  was  something  mournful  in  this  little  anecdote  of  rural 
superstition,  that  seemed  to  affect  all  the  listeners.  Indeed,  it 
is  curious  to  remark  how  completely  a  conversation  of  the  kind 
will  absorb  the  attention  of  a  circle,  and  sober  down  its  gayety, 
however  boisterous.  By  degrees  I  noticed  that  every  one  was 
leaning  forward  over  the  table,  with  eyes  earnestly  fixed  upon 
the  parson ;  and  at  the  mention  of  corpse-candles  which  had 
been  seen  about  the  chamber  of  a  young  lady  who  died  on  the 
eve  of  her  wedding-day,  Lady  Lillycraft  turned  pale. 

I  have  witnessed  the  introduction  of  stories  of  the  kind  into 
various  evening  circles ;  they  were  often  commenced  in  jest, 
and  listened  to  with  smiles  ;  but  I  never  knew  the  most  gay  or 

*  Aubrey's  Miscel. 


82  BEACEBEIDGE    HALL, 

the  most  enlightened  of  audiences,  that  were  not,  if  the  con- 
versation continued  for  any  length  of  time,  completely  and 
solemnly  interested  in  it.  There  is,  I  believe,  a  degree  of 

gnppratitinnlnrlring  fo  ftvfflp  miu3<~inii]  T  ilonh*  if  any  one  Can 

thdWttgfeijrexamine  all  his  secret  notions  and  impulses,  with- 
out detecting  it,  hidden,  perhaps,  even  from  himself.  It  seems, 
in  fact,  to  be  a  part  of  our  nature,  like  instinct  in  animals,  act- 
ing independently  of  our  reason.  It  is  often  found  existing  in 
lofty  natures,  especially  those  that  are  poetical  and  aspiring. 
A  great  and  extraordinary  poet  of  our  day.  whose  life  and 
writings  evince  a  mind  subject  to  powerful  exaltations,  is  said 
to  believe  in  omens  and  secret  intimations.  Caesar,  it  is  well 
known,  was  greatly  under  the  influence  of  such  belief;  and 
..Napoleon  had  his  good  and  evil  days,  and  his  presiding  star. 

As  to  the  worthy  parson,  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  is  strongly 
inclined  to  superstition.  He  is  naturally  credulous,  and  passes 
so  much  of  his  time  searching  out  popular  traditions  and  super- 
natural tales,  that  his  mind  has  probably  become  infected  by 
them.  He  has  lately  been  immersed  in  the  Demonolatria  of 
Nicholas  Remigns,  concerning  supernatural  occurrences  in  Lor- 
raine, and  the  writings  of  Joachimus  Camerarius,  called  by  Vos- 
sius  the  Phoenix  of  Germany  ;  and  he  entertains  the  ladies  with 
stories  from  them,  that  make  them  almost  afraid  to  go  to  bed 
at  night.  I  have  been  charmed  myself  with  some  of  the  wild 
little  superstitions  which  he  has  adduced  from  Blefke"nius, 
Scheffer,  and  others,  such  as  those  of  the  Laplanders  about  the 
domestic  spirits  which  wake  them  at  night,  and  summon  them 
to  go  and  fish :  of  Thor,  the  deity  of  thunder,  who  has  power 
of  life  and  death,  health  and  sickness,  and  who,  armed  with 
the  rainbow,  shoots  his  arrows  at  those  evil  demons  which  live 
on  the  tops  of  rocks  and  mountains,  and  infest  the  lakes;  of 
the  Juhles  or  Juhlafolket,  vagrant  troops  of  spirits,  which  roam 
the  air,  and  wander  up  and  down  by  forests  and  mountains, 
and  the  moonlight  sides  of  hills. 

The  parson  never  openly  professes  his  belief  in  ghosts,  but  I 
have  remarked  that  he  has  a  suspicious  way  of  pressing  great 
names  into  the  defence  of  supernatural  doctrines,  and  making 
philosophers  and  saints  fight  for  him.  He  expatiates  at  large 
on  the  opinions  of  the  ancient  philosophers  about  larves,  or 
nocturnal  phantoms,  the  spirits  of  the  wicked,  which  wandered 
like  exiles  about  the  earth ;  and  about  those  spiritual  beings 
which  abode  in  the  air,  but  descended  occasionally  to  earth,  and 
mingled  among  mortals,  acting  as  agents  between  them  and  the 
gods.  He  quotes  also  from  Philo  the  rabbi,  the  contemporary 


ST.    MAEK'S   EVE.  83 

of  the  apostles,  and,  according  to  some,  the  friend  of  St.  Paul, 
who  says  that  the  air  is  full  of  spirits  of  different  ranks  ;  some 
destined  to  exist  for  a  time  in  mortal  bodies,  from  which  being 
emancipated,  they  pass  and  repass  between  heaven  and  earth, 
as  agents  or  messengers  in  the  service  of  the  deity. 

But  the  worthy  little  man  assumes  a  bolder  tone,  when  he 
quotes  from  the  fathers  of  the  church ;  such  as  St.  Jerome,  who 
gives  it  as  the  opinion  of  all  the  doctors,  that  the  air  is  filled 
with  powers  opposed  to  each  other ;  and  Lactantius,  who  says 
that  corrupt  and  dangerous  spirits  wander  over  the  earth,  and 
seek  to  console  themselves  for  their  own  fall  b}-  affecting  the 
ruin  of  the  human  race  ;  and  Clemens  Alexandrinus,  who  is  of 
opinion  that  the  souls  of  the  blessed  have  knowledge  of  what 
passes  among  men,  the  same  as  angels  have. 

I  am  now  alone  in  my  chamber,  but  these  themes  have  taken 
such  hold  of  my  imagination,  that  I  cannot  sleep.  The  room-in 
which  I  sit  is  just  fitted  to  foster  such  a  state  of  mind.  The 
walls  are  hung  with  tapestry,  the  figures  of  which  are  faded, 
and  look  like  unsubstantial  shapes  melting  away  from  sight. 
Over  the  fireplace  is  the  portrait  of  a  lady,  who,  according  to 
the  housekeeper's  tradition,  pined  to  death  for  the  loss  of  her 
lover  in  the  battle  of  Blenheim.  She  has  a  most  pale  and  plain- 
tive countenance,  and  seems  to  fix  her  eyes  mournfully  upon 
me.  The  family  have  long  since  retired.  I  have  heard  their 
steps  die  away,  and  the  distant  doors  clap  to  after  them.  The 
murmur  of  voices,  and  the  peal  of  remote  laughter,  no  longer 
reach  the  ear.  The  clock  from  the  church,  in  which  so  many 
of  the  former  inhabitants  of  this  house  lie  buried,  has  chimed 
the  awful  hour  of  midnight. 

I  have  sat  by  the  window  and  mused  upon  the  duskj-  land- 
scape, watching  the  lights  disappearing,  one  by  one,  from  the 
distant  village  ;  and  the  moon  rising  in  her  silent  majesty,  and 
leading  up  all  the  silver  pomp  of  heaven.  As  I  have  gazed 
upon  these  quiet  groves  and  shadowy  lawns,  silvered  over,  and 
imperfectly  lighted  by  streaks  of  dewy  moonshine,  my  mindN 
has  been  crowded  by  "  thick-coming  fancies  "  concerning  those  y\ 

spiritualr-betngs~  whlclr 

^^>  /  / 

"walk  the  earth 

Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep." 

Are  there,  indeed,  such  beings?  Is  this  space  between  us  and 
the  deity  filled  up  by  innumerable  orders  of  spiritual  beings, 
forming  the  same  gradations  between  the  human  soul  and 
divine  perfection,  that  we  see  prevailing  from  humanity  down- 

~        <5> 
-V^NA, 


84  BRACEBR1DGE  HALL. 

wards  to  the  meanest   insect?     It  is  a  sublime  and  beautiful 

doctrine,  inculcated  bjjhe -early_f alhers^tbat  there  are  guardian 

angels  appointed  to  watch  over  cities  and  nations  ;  to  take  care 

en  the  wMfare  of  good  men  rand  to  guard  and  guide  the  steps 

/of  helpless  infancy.     "  Nothing,"  says  St.  Jerome,  "gives  us 

f  a  greater  idea  of  the  dignity  of  our  soul,  than  that  God  has 

Vgiyen  each  of  us,  at  the  moment  of  our  birth,  an  angel  to  have 

care  of  it." 

Even  the  doctrine  of  departed  spirits  returning  to  visit  the 
scenes  and  beings  which  were  dear  to  them  during  the  body's 
Wistence,  though  it  has  been  debased  by  the  absurd  supersti- 
'  lions  of  the  vulgar,  in  itself  is  awfully  solemn  and  sublime. 
However  lightly  it  may  be  ridiculed,  yet  the  attention  involun- 
tarily yielded  to  it  whenever  it  is  made  the  subject  of  serious 
discussion  ;  its  prevalence  in  all  ages  and  countries,  and  even 
among  newly-discovered  nations,  that  have  had  no  previous 
interchange  of  thought  with  other  parts  of  the  world,  prove  it 
to  be  one  of  those  mysterious,  and  almost  instinctive  beliefs,  to 
which,  if  left  to  ourselves,  we  should  naturally  incline. 
\  In  spite  of  all  the  pride  of  reason  and  philosophy,  a  vague 
)  doubt  will  still  lurk  in  the  mind,  and  perhaps  will  never  be  per- 
[  fectly  eradicated ;  as  it  is  concerning  a  matter  that  does  not 
>admit  of  positive  demonstration.  Every  thing  connected  with 
bur  spiritual  nature  is  full  of  doubt  and  difficulty.  "We  are 
ff earf ully  and  wonderfully  made  ; ' '  we  are  surrounded  by  mys- 
/teries,  and  we  are  mysteries  even  to  ourselves.  Who  yet  has 
been  able  to  comprehend  and  describe  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
its  connection  with  the  body,  or  in  what  part  of  the  frame  it  is 
situated?  We  know  merely  that  it  does  exist;  but  whence  it 
came,  and  when  it  entered  into  us,  and  how  it  is  retained,  and 
where  it  is  seated,  and  how  it  operates,  are  all  matters  of  mere 
speculation,  and  contradictory  theories.  If,  then,  we  are  thus 
ignorant  of  this  spiritual  essence,  even  while  it  forms  a  part  of 
ourselves,  and  is  continually  present  to  our  consciousness,  how 
can  we  pretend  to  ascertain  or  to  deny  its  powers  and  opera- 
tions when  released  from  its  fleshy  prison-house?  It  is  more 
the  manner,  therefore,  in  which— thio  ottpersliliou  has  been  de- 
graded, than  its  intrinsic  absurdity,  that  has  brought  it  into 
contempt.  Raise  it^above  tho/fnvekHos-piirposes  to  which  it  has 
been  applied,  strip  itTJfHhg/gloom  and  horror  with  which  it  has 
been  surrounded,  and  npmeS^the  whole  circle  of  visionary 
creeds  could  more  delightfully  elevate  the  imagination,  or 
more  tenderly  affect/the  heart.  It  woald  become  a  sovereign 
comfort  at  the  bed  o'f  death,  soothing  the  bitter  tear  wrung  fror 


ST.    MARK'S    EVE.          1  85 

us  by  the  agony  of  our  mortal  separation.  What  could  be  more 
consoling  than  the  idea,  that  the  souls  of  those  whom  we  once-> 
loved  were  permitted  to  return  and  watch  over  our  welfare  ?  —  ) 
that  affectionate  and  guardian  spirits  sat  by  our  pillows  when  '  ' 
we  slept,  keeping  a  vigil  over  our  most  helpless  hours  ?  —  that 
beauty  and  innocence  which  had  languished  into  the  tomb,  yet 
smiled  unseen  around  us,  revealing  themselves  in  those  blest 
dreams  wherein  we  live  over  again  the  hours  of  past  endear- 
ment? A  belief  of  this  kind  would,  I  should  think,  be  a  new 
incentive  to  virtue;  rendering  us  circumspect  even  in  our 
secret  moments,  from  the  idea  that  those  we  once  loved  and 
honored  were  invisible  witnesses  of  all  our  actions. 

It  would  take  away,  too,  from  that  loneliness  and  destitution 
which  we  are  apt  to  feel  more  and  more  as  we  get  on  in  our 
pilgrimage  through  the  wilderness  of  this  world,  and  find  that 
those  who  set  forward  with  us,  lovingly  and  cheerily,  on  the 
journey,  have,  one  by  one,  dropped  away  from  our  side.     Place  ~*}  / 
the  superstition  in  this  light,  and  I  confess  I  should  like  to  be  ^\J^ 
believer  in  it.     I  see  nothing  in  it  that  is  incompatible  with  theff 
tender  and  merciful   nature  of  our   religion,  nor   revolting  to 
the  wishes  and  affections  of  the  heart. 

There  are  departed  beings  whom  I  have  loved  as  I  never  again 
shall  love  in  this  world ;  —  who  have  loved  me  as  I  never  again 
shall  be  loved !     If  such  beings  do  ever  retain  in  their  blessed     ; 
spheres  the  attachments  which  they  felt  on  earth  —  if  they  take  1 
an  interest  in  the  poor  concerns  of  transient  mortality,  and  are 
permitted  to  hold  communion  with  those  whom  they  have  loved 
on  earth,  I  feel  as  if  now,  at  this  deep  hour  of  night,  in  this 
silence  and  solitude,  I  could  receive  their  visitation  with   the 
most  solemn,  but  unalloyed  delight. 

In  truth,  such  visitations  would  be  too  happy  for  this  world ; 
they  would  be  incompatible  with  the  nature  of  this  imperfect 
state  of  being.  We  are  here  placed  in  a  mere  scene  of  spiritual 
thraldom  and  restraint.  Our  souls  are  shut  in  and  limited  by 
bounds  and  barriers ;  shackled  by  mortal  infirmities,  and  sub- 
ject to  all  the  gross  impediments  of  matter.  In  vain  would  , 
they  seek  to  act  independently  of  the  body,  and  to  mingle  to- 
gether in  spiritual  intercourse.  They  can  only  act  here  through 
their  fleshly  organs.  Their  earthly  loves  are  made  up  of  tran- 
sient embraces  and  long  separations.  The  most  intimate  friend-  '. 
ship,  of  what  brief  and  scattered  portions  of  time  does  it  consist ! 
We  take  each  other  by  the  hand,  and  we  exchange  a  few  words 
and  looks  of  kindness,  and  we  rejoice  together  for  a  few  short 
moments  —  and  then  days,  months,  years  intervene,  and  we 


86  BBACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

see  and  know  nothing  of  each  other.  Or,  granting  that  we 
dwell  together  for  the  full  season  of  this  our  mortal  life,  the 
grave  soon  closes  its  gates  between  us,  and  then  our  spirits  are 
doomed  to  remain  in  separation  and  widowhood  ;  until  they 
meet  again  in  that  more  perfect  state  of  being,  where  soul  will 
dwell  with  soul  in  blissful  communion,  and  there  will  be  neither 
death,  nor  absence,  nor  any  thing  else  to  interrupt  our  felicity. 


%*  In  the  foregoing  paper,  I  have  alluded  to  the  writings  of 
some  of  the  old  Jewish  rabbins.  They  abound  with  wild  the- 
ories ;  but  among  them  are  many  truly  poetical  flights ;  and 
their  ideas  are  often  very  beautifully  expressed.  Their  specu- 
lations on  the  nature  of  angels  are  curious  and  fanciful,  though 
much  resembling  the  doctrines  of  the  ancient  philosophers.  In 
the  writings  of  the  Rabbi  Eleazer  is  an  account  of  the  tempta- 
tion of  our  first  parents,  and  the  fall  of  the  angels,  which  the 
parson  pointed  out  to  me  as  having  probably  furnished  some  of 
the  groundwork  for  "Paradise  Lost." 

According  to  Eleazer,  the  ministering  angels  said  to  the 
Deity,  "What  is  there  in  man,  that  thou  makest  him  of  such 
importance?  Is  he  any  thing  else  than  vanity?  for  he  can 
scarcely  reason  a  little  on  terrestrial  things."  To  which  God 
replied,  "Do  you  imagine  that  I  will  be  exalted  and  glorified 
only  by  you  here  above?  I  am  the  same  below  that  I  am  here. 
Who  is  there  among  you  that  can  call  all  the  creatures  by  their 
names?  "  There  was  none  found  among  them  that  could  do  so. 
At  that  moment  Adam  arose,  and  called  all  the  creatures  by 
their  names.  Seeing  which,  the  ministering  angels  said  among 
themselves,  "  Let  us  consult  together  how  we  may  cause  Adam 
to  sin  against  the  Creator,  otherwise  he  will  not  fail  to  become 
our  master." 

Sammael,  who  was  a  great  prince  in  the  heavens,  was  present 
at  this  council,  with  the  saints  of  the  first  order,  and  the  sera- 
phim of  six  bands.  Sammael  chose  several  out  of  the  twelve 
orders  to  accompany  him,  and  descended  below,  for  the  purpose 
of  visiting  all  the  creatures  which  God  had  created.  He  found 
none  more  cunning  and  more  fit  to  do  evil  than  the  serpent. 

The  Rabbi  then  treats  of  the  seduction  and  the  fall  of  man ; 
of  the  consequent  fall  of  the  demon,  and  the  punishment  which 
God  inflicted  on  Adam,  Eve,  and  the  serpent.  "  He  made 
them  all  come  before  him  ;  pronounced  nine  maledictions  on 
Adam  and  Eve,  and  condemned  them  to  suffer  death ;  and  he 
precipitated  Sammael  and  all  bis  band  from  heaven.  He  cut 


GENTILITY.  87 

off  the  feet  of  the  serpent,  which  had  before  the  figure  of  a 
camel  (Sammael  having  been  mounted  on  him) ,  and  he  cursed 
him  among  all  beasts  and  animals." 


GENTILITY. 

True  Gentrie  standeth  in  the  trade 

Of  virtuous  life,  not  in  the  fleshly  line; 
For  bloud  is  knit,  but  Gentrie  is  divine. 

—  Mirror  for  Magiitratet. 

I  HAVE  mentioned  some  peculiarities  of  the  Squire  in  the 
education  of  his  sons ;  but  I  would  not  have  it  thought  that  his 
instructions  were  directed  chiefly  to  their  personal  accomplish- 
ments. He  took  great  pains  also  to  form  their  minds,  and  to 
inculcate  what  he  calls  good  old  English  principles,  such  as  are 
laid  down  in  the  writings  of  Peacham  and  his  contemporaries. 
There  is  one  author  of  whom  he  cannot  speak  without  indigna- 
tion, which  is  Chesterfield.  He  avers  that  he  did  much,  for  a 
time,  to  injure  the  true  national  character,  and  to  introduce, 
instead  of  open,  manly  sincerity,  a  hollow,  perfidious  courtli- 
ness. "  His  maxims,"  he  affirms,  "  were  calculated  to  chill 
the  delightful  enthusiasm  of  youth  ;  and  to  make  them  ashamed  of 
that  romance  which  is  the  dawn  of  generous  manhood,  and  to 
impart  to  them  a  cold  polish  and  a  premature  worldliness. 

"  Many  of  Lord  Chesterfield's  maxims  would  make  a  young 
man  a  mere  man  of  pleasure ;  but  an  English  gentleman  should 
not  be  a  mere  man  of  pleasure.  He  has  no  right  to  such  selfish 
indulgence.  His  ease,  his  leisure,  his  opulence,  are  debts  due 
to  his  country,  which  he  must  ever  stand  ready  to  discharge. 
He  should  be  a  man  at  all  points;  simple,  frank,  courteous, 
intelligent,  accomplished,  and  informed ;  upright,  intrepid,  and 
disinterested ;  one  who  can  mingle  among  freemen ;  who  can 
cope  with  statesmen;  who  can  champion  his  country  and  its 
rights,  either  at  home  or  abroad.  In  a  country  like  England, 
where  there  is  such  free  and  unbounded  scope  for  the  exertion 
of  intellect,  and  where  opinion  and  example  have  such  weight 
with  the  people,  every  gentleman  of  fortune  and  leisure  should 
feel  himself  bound  to  employ  himself  in  some  way  towards 
promoting  the  prosperity  or  glory  of  the  nation.  In  a  country 
where  intellect  and  action  are  trammelled  and  restrained,  men 
of  rank  and  fortune  may  become  idlers  and  triflers  with  im- 
punity ;  but  an  English  coxcomb  is  inexcusable ;  and  this, 


88  BRACEBR1DGE  HALL. 

perhaps,  is  the  reason  why  he  is  the  most  offensive  and  insup- 
portable coxcomb  in  the  world." 

The  Squire,  as  Frank  Bracebridge  informs  me,  would  often 
hold  forth  in  this  manner  to  his  sons,  when  they  were  about 
leaving  the  paternal  roof ;  one  to  travel  abroad,  one  to  go  to 
the  army,  and  one  to  the  university.  He  used  to  have  them 
with  him  in  the  library,  which  is  hung  with  the  portraits  of 
Sidney,  Surrey,  Raleigh,  Wyat,  and  others.  "  Look  at  those 
models  of  true  English  gentlemen,  my  sons,"  he  wrould  say 
with  enthusiasm;  "  those  were  men  that  wreathed  the  graces 
of  the  most  delicate  and  refined  taste  around  the  stern  virtues 
of  the  soldier ;  that  mingled  what  was  gentle  and  gracious, 
with  what  was  hardy  and  manly  ;  that  possessed  the  true  chiv- 
alry of  spirit,  which  is  the  exalted  essence  of  manhood.  They 
are  the  lights  by  which  the  youth  of  the  country  should  array 
themselves.  They  were  the  patterns  and  idols  of  their  country 
at  home ;  they  were  the  illustrators  of  its  dignity  abroad. 
'  Surrey,'  says  Camden,  '  was  the  first  nobleman  that  illustrated 
his  high  birth  with  the  beauty  of  learning.  He  was  acknowl- 
edged to  be  the  gallantest  man,  the  politest  lover,  and  the  com- 
pletest  gentleman  of  his  time.'  And  as  to  Wyat,  his  friend 
Surrey  most  amiably  testifies  of  him,  that  his  person  was  ma- 
jestic and  beautiful,  his  visage  '  stern  and  mild  ; '  that  he  sung, 
and  played  the  lute  with  remarkable  sweetness ;  spoke  foreign 
languages  with  grace  and  fluency,  and  possessed  an  inexhaust- 
ible fund  of  wit.  And  see  what  a  high  commendation  is  passed 
upon  these  illustrious  friends  :  '  They  were  the  two  chieftains, 
who,  having  travelled  into  Italy,  and  there  tasted  the  sweet 
and  stately  measures  and  style  of  the  Italian  poetry,  greatly 
polished  our  rude  and  homely  manner  of  vulgar  poetry  from 
what  it  had  been  before,  and  therefore  may  be  justly  called 
the  reformers  of  our  English  poetry  and  style.'  And  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  who  has  lelt,  us  such  monuments  of  elegant 
thought,  and  generous  sentiment,  and  who  illustrated  his  chivaV- 
rous  spirit  so  gloriously  in  the  field.  And  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
the  elegant  courtier,  the  intrepid  soldier,  the  enterprising  dis- 
coverer, the  enlightened  philosopher,  the  magnanimous  martyr. 
These  are  the  men...for-Eoglish  gentlemen  to~study.  Chester- 
field, with'  his  cold  and  courtly  maxims,  would  have  chilled  and 
impoverished  such  spirits.  He  would  have  blighted  all  the  bud- 
ding romance  of  their  temperaments.  Sidney  would  never  have 
written  his  Arcadia,  nor  Surrey  have  challenged  the  world  in 
vindication  of  the  beauties  of  his  Geraldine.  "These  are  the 
men,  my  sons,"  the  Squire  will  continue,  u  that  show  to  what 


GENTILITY.  89 

our  national  character  may  be  exalted,  when  its  strong  and  pow-. 
erful  qualities  are  duly  wrought  up  and  refined.  The  solidest 
bodies  are  capable  of  the  highest  polish ;  and  there  is  no  char- 
acter that  may  be  wrought  to  a  more  exquisite  and  unsullied 
brightness,  than  that  of  the  true  English  gentleman." 

When  Guy  was  about  to  depart  for  the  army,  the  Squire 
again  took  him  aside,  and  gave  him  a  long  exhortation.  He 
warned  him  against  that  affectation  of  cold-blooded  indiffer- 
ence, which  he  was  told  was  cultivated  by  the  young  British 
officers,  among  whom  it  was  a  study  to  "  sink  the  soldier"  in 
the  mere  man  of  fashion.  "A  soldier,"  said  he,  "without 
pride  and  enthusiasm  in  his  profession,  is  a  mere  sanguinary 
hireling.  Nothing  distinguishes  him  from  the  mercenary 
bravo,  but  a  spirit  of  patriotism,  or  a  thirst  for  glory.  It  is  the 
fashion  now-a-days,  my  son,"  said  he,  "to  laugh  at  the  spirit 
of  chivalry  ;  when  that  spirit  is  really  extinct,  the  profession  of 
the  soldier  becomes  a  mere  trade  of  blood."  He  then  set 
before  him  the  conduct  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  who  is  his 
mirror  of  chivalry ;  valiant,  generous,  affable,  humane ;  gal- 
lant in  the  field.  But  when  he  came  to  dwell  on  his  courtesy 
toward  his  prisoner,  the  king  of  France ;  how  he  received  him 
in  his  tent,  rather  as  a  conqueror  than  as  a  captive ;  attended 
on  him  at  table  like  one  of  his  retinue ;  rode  uncovered  beside 
him  on  his  entry  into  London,  mounted  on  a  common  palfrey, 
while  his  prisoner  was  mounted  in  state  on  a  white  steed  of 
stately  beauty ;  the  tears  of  enthusiasm  stood  in  the  old  gentle- 
man's eyes. 

Finally,  on  taking  leave,  the  good  Squire  put  in  his  son's 
hands,  as  a  manual,  one  of  his  favorite  old  volumes,  the  life  of 
the  Chevalier  Bayard,  by  Godefroy ;  on  a  blank  page  of  which 
he  had  written  an  extract  from  the  Morte  d'Arthur,  containing 
the  eulogy  of  Sir  Ector  over  the  body  of  Sir  Launcelot  of  the 
Lake,  which  the  Squire  considers  as  comprising  the  excellences 
of  a  true  soldier.  "  Ah,  Sir  Launcelot !  thou  wert  head  of  all 
Christian  knights ;  now  there  thou  liest :  thou  wert  never 
matched  of  none  earthly  knights-hands.  And  thou  wert  the 
curtiest  knight  that  ever  bare  shield.  And  thou  .wert  the  truest 
friend  to  thy  lover  that  ever  bestrood  horse  ;  and  thou  wert  the 
truest  lover  of  a  sinfull  man  that  ever  loved  woman.  And  thou 
wert  the  kindest  man  that  ever  strook  with  sword ;  and  thou 
wert  the  goodliest  person  that  ever  came  among  the  presse  of 
knights.  And  thou  wert  the  meekest  man  and  the  gentlest  that 
ever  eate  in  hall  among  ladies.  And  thou  wert  the  sternest 
knight  to  thy  mortal  foe  that  ever  put  speare  in  the  rest." 


90  BEACEBEIDGE    HALL. 


FORTUNE-TELLING. 

Each  city,  each  town,  and  every  village, 

Affords  us  either  an  alms  or  pillage. 

And  if  the  weather  be  cold  and  raw, 

Then  in  a  barn  we  tumble  on  straw. 

If  warm  and  fair,  by  yea-cock  and  nay-cock, 

The  fields  will  afford  us  a  hedge  or  a  hay-cock.  —  Merry  Beggars. 

As  I  was  walking  one  evening  with  the  Oxonian,  Master 
Simon,  and  the  general,  in  a  meadow  not  far  from  the  village, 
we  heard  the  sound  of  a  fiddle,  rudely  played,  and  looking  in 
the  direction  whence  it  came,  we  saw  a  thread  of  smoke 
curling  up  from  among  the  trees.  The  sound  of  music  is 
always  attractive ;  for,  wherever  there  is  music,  there  is  good- 
humor,  or  good-will.  We  passed  along  a  footpath,  and  had  a 
peep  through  a  break  in  the  hedge,  at  the  musician  and  his 
party,  when  the  Oxonian  gave  us  a  wink,  and  told  us  that  if 
we  would  follow  him  we  should  have  some  sport. 

It  proved  to  be  a  gypsy  encampment,  consisting  of  three  or 
four  little  cabins,  or  tents,  made  of  blankets  and  sail-cloth, 
spread  over  hoops  stuck  in  the  ground.  It  was  on  one 
side  of  a  green  lane,  close  under  a  hawthorn  hedge,  with  a 
broad  beech-tree  spreading  above  it.  A  small  rill  tinkled  along 
close  by,  .through  the  fresh  sward,  that  looked  like  a  carpet. 

A  tea-kettle  was  hanging  by  a  crooked  piece  of  iron,  over  a 
fire  made  from  dry  sticks  and  leaves,  and  two  old  gypsies,  in 
red  cloaks,  sat  crouched  on  the  grass,  gossiping  over  their 
evening  cup  of  tea  ;  for  these  creatures,  though  they  live  in  the 
open  air,  have  their  ideas  of  fireside  comforts.  There  were 
two  or  three  children  sleeping  on  the  straw  with  which  the 
tents  were  littered ;  a  couple  of  donkeys  were  grazing  in  the 
lane,  and  a  thievish-looking  dog  was  lying  before  the  fire. 
Some  of  the  younger  gypsies  were  dancing  to  the  music  of  a 
fiddle,  played  by  a  tall,  slender  stripling,  in  an  old  frock-coat, 
with  a  peacock's  feather  stuck  in  his  hat-band. 

As  we  approached,  a  gypsy  girl,  with  a  pair  of  fine,  roguish 
eyes,  came  up,  and,  as  usual,  offered  to  tell  our  fortunes.  I 
could  not  but  admire  a  certain  degree  of  slattern  elegance  about 
the  baggage.  Her  long  black  silken  hair  was  curiously  plaited 
in  numerous  small  braids,  and  negligently  put  up  in  a  pic- 
turesque style  that  a  painter  might  have  been  proud  to  have 
devised. 


FOB  T  UNE-  TELLING.  91 

Her  dress  was  of  figured  chintz,  rather  ragged,  and  not  over- 
clean,  but  of  a  variety  of  most  harmonious  and  agreeable  colors  ; 
for  these  beings  have  a  singularly  fine  eye  for  colors.  Her 
straw  hat  was  in  her  hand,  and  a  red  cloak  thrown  over  one 
arm. 

The  Oxonian  offered  at  once  to  have  his  fortune  told,  and  the 
girl  began  with  the  usual  volubility  of  her  race ;  but  he  drew 
her  on  one  side,  near  the  hedge,  as  he  said  he  had  no  idea  of 
having  his  secrets  overheard.  I  saw  he  was  talking  to  her 
instead  of  she  to  him,  and  by  his  glancing  towards  us  now  and 
then,  that  he  was  giving  the  baggage  some  private  hints. 
When  they  returned  to  us,  he  assumed  a  very  serious  air. 
••Zounds  !  "  said  he,  "it's  very  astonishing  how  these  creatures 
come  by  their  knowledge ;  this  girl  has  told  me  some  things 
that  I  thought  no  one  knew  but  myself  !  "  The  girl  now  assailed 
the  general:  "Come,  your  honor,"  said  she,  "I  see  by  your 
face  you're  a  lucky  man  ;  but  you're  not  happy  in  your  mind  ; 
you're  not,  indeed,  sir;  but  have  a  good  heart,  and  give  me  a 
good  piece  of  silver,  and  I'll  tell  you  a  nice  fortune." 

The  general  had  received  all  her  approaches  with  a  banter, 
and  had  suffered  her  to  get  hold  of  his  hand ;  but  at  the 
mention  of  the  piece  of  silver,  he  hemmed,  looked  grave,  and, 
turning  to  us,  asked  if  we  had  not  better  continue  our  walk. 
"Come,  my  master,"  said  the  girl,  archly,  "you'd  not  be  in 
such  a  hurry,  if  you  knew  all  that  I  could  tell  you  about  a  fair 
lady  that  has  a  notion  for  you.  Come,  sir ;  'old  love  burns 
strong ;  there's  many  a  one  comes  to  see  weddings,  that  go 
away  brides  themselves."  — Here  the  girl  whispered  something 
in  a  low  voice,  at  which  the  general  colored  up,  was  a  little  flut- 
tered, and  suffered  himself  to  be  drawn  aside  under  the  hedge, 
where  he  appeared  to  listen  to  her  with  great  earnestness,  and 
at  the  end  paid  her  half-a-crown  with  the  air  of  a  man  that 
has  got  the  worth  of  his  money.  The  girl  next  made  her  attack 
upon  Master  Simon,  who,  however,  was  too  old  a  bird  to  be 
caught,  knowing  that  it  would  end  in  an  attack  upon  his  purse, 
about  which  he  is  a  little  sensitive.  As  he  has  a  great  notion, 
however,  of  being  considered  a  roister,  he  chucked  her  under 
the  chin,  played  her  off  with  rather  broad  jokes,  and  put  on 
something  of  the  rake-helly  air,  that  we  see  now  and  then 
assumed  on  the  stage,  by  the  sad-boy  gentleman  of  the  old 
school.  "  Ah,  your  honor/'  said  the  girl,  with  a  malicious  leer, 
"you  were  not  in  such  a  tantrum  last  year,  when  I  told  you 
about  the  widow,  you  know  who  ;  but  if  you  had  taken  a  friend's 
advice,  you'd  never  have  come  away  from  Doncaster  races  with. 


92  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

a  flea  in  your  ear!  "  There  was  a  secret  sting  in  this  speech, 
that  seemed  quite  to  disconcert  Master  Simon.  He  jerked 
away  his  hand  iu  a  pet,  smacked  his  whip,  whistled  to  his  dogs, 
and  intimated  that  it  was  high  time  to  go  home.  The  girl,  how- 
ever, was  determined  not  to  lose  her  harvest.  She  now  turned 
upon  me,  and,  as  I  have.a.  weakness  of  spirit  where  there  is  a 

~ 


. 

pretty  face  concerned,  she  soonl^reTJcHe4»)«-~<5ut~6f  my-*»©aey.A 
and,  in  return,  read  me  a  fortune  ;  which,  if  it  prove  true,  am\ 
I  am  determined  to  believe  it,  will  make  me  one  of  the  luckiest 
men  in  the  chronicles  of  Cupid. 

I  saw  that  the  Oxonian  was  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  oracula-i 
mystery,  and  was  disposed  to  amuse  himself  with  the  genera), 
whose  tender  approaches  to  the  widow  have  attracted  the  notice 
of  the  wag.  I  was  a  little  curious,  however,  to  know  the  mean- 
ing of  the  dark  hints  which  had  so  suddenly  disconcerted  Mas- 
ter Simon  ;  and  took  occasion  to  fall  in  the  rear  with  thft 
Oxonian  on  our  way  home,  when  he  laughed  heartily  at  nry 
questions,  and  gave  me  ample  information  on  the  subject. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  that  Master  Simon  has  met  with 
a  sad  rebuff  since  my  Christmas  visit  to  the  Hall.  He  used  af 
that  time  to  be  joked  about  a  widow,  a  fine  dashing  woman,  a.<- 
he  privately  informed  me.  I  had  supposed  the  pleasure  he 
betrayed  on  these  occasions  resulted  from  the  usual  fondness 
of  old  bachelors  for  being  teased  about  getting  married,  and 
about  flirting,  and  being  fickle  and  false-hearted.  I  am  assured, 
however,  that  Master  Simon  had  really  persuaded  himself  the 
widow  had  a  kindness  for  him  ;  in  consequence  of  which  he 
had  been  at  some  extraordinary  expense  in  new  clothes,  and  had 
actually  got  Frank  Bracebridge  to  order  him  a  coat  from  Stultz. 
He  began  to  throw  out  hints  about  the  importance  of  a  man's 
settling  himself  iu  life  before  he  grew  old  ;  he  would  look  grave, 
whenever  the  widow  and  matrimony  were  mentioned  in  the  same 
sentence  ;  and  privately  asked  the  opinion  of  the  Squire  and 
parson  about  the  prudence  of  marrying  a  widow  with  a  rich 
jointure,  but  who  had  several  children. 

An  important  member  of  a  great  family  connection  cannot 
harp  much  upon  the  theme  of  matrimony,  without  its  taking 
wind  ;  and  it  soon  got  buzzed  about  that  Mr.  Simon  Bracebridge 
was  actually  gone  to  Doncaster  races,  with  a  new  horse  ;  but 
that  he  meant  to  return  in  a  curricle  with  a  lady  by  his  side. 
Master  Simon  did,  indeed,  go  to  the  races,  and  that  with  a  new 
horse  ;  and  the  dashing  widow  did  make  her  appearance  in  a 
curricle  ;  but  it  was  unfortunately  driven  by  a  strapping  young 
Irish  dragoon,  with  whom  even  Master  Simon's  self-comphv 


LOVE-CHARMS.  93 

cency  would  not  allow  him  to  venture  into  competition,  and  to 
whom  she  was  married  shortly  afterwards. 

It  was  a  matter  of  sore  chagrin  to  Master  Simon  for  several 
months,  having  never  before  been  fully  committed.  The  dull- 
est head  in  the  family  had  a  joke  upon  him ;  and  there  is  no 
one  that  likes  less  to  be  bantered  than  an  absolute  joker.  He 
took  refuge  for  a  time  at  Lady  Lillycraft's,  until  the  matter 
should  blow  over ;  and  occupied  himself  by  looking  over  her 
accounts,  regulating  the  village  choir,  and  inculcating  loyalty 
into  a  pet  bulfiuch,  by  teaching  him  to  whistle  "  God  save  the 
King." 

He  has  now  pretty  nearly  recovered  from  the  mortification  ; 
holds  up  his  head,  and  laughs  as  much  as  any  one  ;  again  affects 
to  pity  married  men,  and  is  particularly  facetious  about  widows, 
when  Lady  Lillycraft  is  not  by.  His  only  time  of  trial  is  when 
the  general  gets  hold  of  him,  who  is  infinitely  heavy  and  per- 
severing in  his  waggery,  and  will  interweave  a  dull  joke  through 
the  various  topics  of  a  whole  dinner-time.  Master  Simon  often 
parries  these  attacks  by  a  stanza  from  his  old  work  of  "  Cupid's 
SoHcitor  for  Love  : ' ' 

"  "Pis  in  vain  to  wooe  a  widow  over  long, 

In  once  or  twice  her  mind  you  may  perceive; 
Widows  are  subtle,  be  they  old  or  young, 
And  by  their  wiles  young  men  they  will  deceive.** 


LOVE-CHARMS. 

Come,  do  not  weep,  ray  girl, 

Forget  him,  pretty  Pensiveness;  there  will 

Come  others,  every  day,  as  good  as  he.  —  SIR  J.  SUCKLING. 

THE  approach  of  a  wedding  in  a  family  is  always  an  event  of 
great  importance,  but  particularly  so  in  a  household  like  this, 
in  a  retired  part  of  the  country.  Master  Simon,  who  is  a 
pervading  spirit,  and,  through  means  of  the  butler  and  house, 
keeper,  knows  every  thing  that  goes  forward,  tells  me  that  the 
maid-servants  are  continually  trying  their  fortunes,  and  that 
the  servants'-hall  has  of  late  been  quite  a  scene  of  incantation. 

It  is  amusing  to  notice  how  the  oddities  of  the  head  of  a 
family  flow  down  through  all  the  branches.  The  Squire,  in 
the  indulgence  of  his  love  of  every  thing  which  smacks  of  old 
times,  has  held  so  many  grave  conversations  with  liie  mrso'1 


94  BEACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

at  table,  about  popular  superstitions  and  traditional  rites,  that 
they  have  been  carried  from  the  parlor  to  the  kitchen  by  the 
listening  domestics,  and,  being  apparently  sanctioned  by  such 
high  authority,  the  whole  house  has  become  infected  by  them. 

The  servants  are  all  versed  in  the  common  modes  of  trying 
luck,  and  the  charms  to  insure  constancy.  They  read  their 
fortunes  by  drawing  strokes  in  the  ashes,  or  by  repeating  a 
form  of  words,  and  looking  in  a  pail  pf  water.  St.  Mark's 
Eve,  I  am  told,  was  a  bus}-  time  with  them  ;  being  an  appointed 
night  for  certain  mystic  ceremonies.  Several  of  them  sowed 
hemp-seed  to  be  reaped  by  their  true  lovers ;  and  they  even 
ventured  upon  the  solemn  and  fearful  preparation  of  the  dumb- 
cake.  This  must  be  done  fasting,  and  in  silence.  The  ingre- 
dients are  handed  dowu  in  traditional  form  :  "  An  eggshell  full 
of  salt,  an  eggshell  full  of  malt,  and  an  eggshell  full  of  barley- 
meal."  When  the  cake  is  ready,  it  is  put  upon  a  pan  over  the 
fire,  and  the  future  husband  will  appear,  turn  the  cake,  and  re- 
tire ;  but  if  a  word  is  spoken  or  a  fast  is  broken  during  this 
awful  ceremony,  there  is  no  knowing  what  horrible  consequences 
would  ensue ! 

The  experiments,  in  the  present  instance,  came  to  no  result ; 
they  that  sowed  the  hemp-seed  forgot  the  magic  rhyme  that  they 
were  to  pronounce  —  so  the  true  lover  never  appeared ;  and  as 
to  the  dumb-cake,  what  between  the  awful  stillness  they  had  to 
keep,  and  the  awfulness  of  the  midnight  hour,  their  hearts  failed 
them  when  they  had  put  the  cake  in  the  pan;  so  that,  on  the 
striking  of  the  great  house-clock  in  the  servauts'-hall,  they  were 
seized  with  a  sudden  panic,  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  to  which 
they  did  not  return  until  morning,  when  they  found  the  mystic 
cake  burnt  to  a  cinder. 

The  most  persevering  at  these  spells,  however,  is  Phoebe 
Wilkins,  the  housekeeper's  niece.  As  she  is  a  kind  of  privi- 
leged personage,  and  rather  idle,  she  has  more  time  to  occupy 
herself  with  these  matters.  She  has  always  had  her  head  full 
of  love  and  matrimony.  She  knows  the  dream-book  by  heart, 
and  is  quite  an  oracle  among  the  little  girls  of  the  family,  who 
always  come  to  her  to  interpret  their  dreams  in  the  mornings. 

During  the  present  gayety  of  the  house,  however,  the  poor 
girl  has  worn  a  face  full  of  trouble ;  and,  to  use  the  house- 
keeper's words,  "has  fallen  into  a  sad  hystericky  way  lately." 
It  seems  that  she  was  born  and  brought  up  in  the  village,  where 
her  father  was  parish-clerk,  and  she  was  an  early  playmate 
and  sweetheart  of  young  Jack  Tibbets.  Since  she  has  come  to 
live  at  the  Hall,  however,  her  head  has  been  a  little  turned. 


LOVE-CHARMS.  95 

Being  very  pretty,  and  naturally  genteel,  she  has  been  much 
noticed  and  indulged ;  and  being  the  housekeeper's  niece,  she 
has  held  an  equivocal  station  between  a  servant  and  a  com- 
panion. She  has  learnt  something  of  fashions  and  notions 
among  the  young  ladies,  which  have  effected  quite  a  metamor- 
phosis ;  insomuch  that  her  finery  at  church  on  Sundays  has 
given  mortal  offence  to  her  former  intimates  in  the  village. 
This  has  occasioned  the  misrepresentations  which  have  awak- 
ened the  implacable  family  pride  of  Dame  Tibbets.  But  what 
is  worse,  Phoebe,  having  a  spice  of  coquetry  in  her  disposition, 
showed  it  on  one  or  two  occasions  to  her  lover,  which  produced 
a  downright  quarrel ;  and  Jack,  being  very  proud  and  fiery,  has 
absolutely  turned  his  back  upon  her  for  several  successive  Sun- 
days. 

The  poor  girl  is  full  of  sorrow  and  repentance,  and  would  fain 
make  up  with  her  lover ;  but  he  feels  his  security,  and  stands 
aloof.  In  this  he  is  doubtless  encouraged  by  his  mother,  who 
is  continually  reminding  him  what  he  owes  to  his  family ;  for 
this  same  family  pride  seems  doomed  to  be  the  eternal  bane  of 
lovers. 

As  I  hate  to  see  a  pretty  face  in  trouble,  I  have  felt  quite  con 
cerned  for  the  luckless  Phoebe,  ever  since  I  heard  her  story, 
is  a  sad  thing- .to.  be  thwarted  iu  love  at  any  time,  but  parti 
larly  so  at  this  tender  season  of  tEe  year,  when  every  living 
thing,  even  to  the  very  butterfly,  is  sporting  with  its  mate  ; 
"the  green  fields,  and  the  budding  groves,  and  the  singing  of  the 
birds,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  flowers,  are  enough  to  turn 
the  head  of  a  love-sick  girl.  I  am  told  that  the  coolness  of 
young  Ready-Money  lies  very  heavy  at  poor  Phoebe's  heart.  In- 
stead of  singing  about  the  house  as  formerly,  she  goes  about 
pale  and  sighing,  and  is  apt  to  break  into  tears  when  her  com- 
panions are  full  of  merriment. 

Mrs.  Hannah,  the  vestal  gentlewoman  of  my  Lady  Lillycraft, 
has  had  long  talks  and  walks  with  Phoebe,  up  and  down  the 
avenue  of  an  evening ;  and  has  endeavored  to  squeeze  some 
of  her  own  verjuice  into  the  other's  milk}'  nature.  She  speaks 
with  contempt  and  abhorrence  of  the  whole  sex,  and  advises 
Phoebe  to  despise  all  the  men  as  heartily  as  she  does.  But 
Phoebe's  loving  temper  is  not  to  be  curdled ;  she  has  no  sucii 
thing  as  hatred  or  contempt  for  mankind  in  her  whole  composi- 
tion. She  has  all  the  simple  fondness  of  heart  of  poor,  weak, 
loving  woman ;  and  her  only  thoughts  at  present  are  how  to 
conciliate  and  reclaim  her  wayward  swain. 

The  spells  and  love-charms,  which  are  matters  of  sport  to 


96  BRACEBRILGE  HALL, 

the  other  domestics,  are  serious  concerns  with  this  love-stricken 
damsel.  She  is  continually  trying  her  fortune  in  a  variety 
of  ways.  I  am  told  that  she  has  absolutely  fasted  for  six 
Wednesdays  and  three  Fridays  successively,  having  under- 
stood that  it  was  a  sovereign  charm  to  insure  being  married 
to  one's  liking  within  the  year.  She  carries  about,  also,  a  lock 
of  her  sweetheart's  hair,  and  a  ribbon  he  once  gave  her,  being 
a  mode  of  producing  constancy  in  a  lover.  She  even  went  so 
far  as  to  try  her  fortune  by  the  moon,  which  has  always  had 
much  to  do  with  lovers'  dreams  and  fancies.  For  this  purpose, 
she  went  out  in  the  night  of  the  full  moon,  knelt  on  a  stone  in 
the  meadow,  and  repeated  the  old  traditional  rhyme : 

"All  hail  to  thee,  moon,  all  hail  to  thee; 
I  pray  thee,  good  moon,  now  show  to  me 
The  youth  who  my  future  husband  shall  be." 

When  she  came  back  to  the  house,  she  was  faint  and  pale, 
and  went  immediately  to  bed.  The  next  morning  she  told  the 
porter's  wife  that  she  had  seen  some  one  close  by  the  hedge 
in  the  meadow,  which  she  was  sure  was  young  Tibbets  ;  at  anv 
rate,  she  had  dreamt  of  him  all  night;  both  of  which,  the  old 
dame  assured  her,  were  most  happy  signs.  It  has  since  turned 
out  that  the  person  in  the  meadow  was  old  Christy,  the  hunts- 
man, who  was  walking  his  nightly  rounds  with  the  great  stag- 
hound  ;  so  that  Phoebe's  faith  in  the  charm  is  completely 
shaken. 


THE  LIBRARY. 

YESTERDAY  the  fair  Julia  made  her  first  appearance  down- 
stairs since  her  accident ;  and  the  sight  of  her  spread  an  uni- 
versal cheerfulness  through  the  household.  She  was  extremely 
pale,  however,  and  could  not  walk  without  pain  and  difficulty. 
She  was  assisted,  therefore,  to  a  sofa  in  the  library,  which  is 
pleasant  and  retired,  looking  out  among  trees ;  and  so  quiet, 
that  the  little  birds  come  hopping  upon  the  windows,  and  peer- 
ing curiously  into  the  apartment.  Here  several  of  the  family 
gathered  round,  and  devised  means  to  amuse  her,  and  make 
the  day  pass  pleasantly.  Lady  Lillycraft  lamented  the  want 
of  some  new  novel  to  while  away  the  time  ;  and  was  almost  in 
a  pet,  because  the  "Author  of  Waverley  "  had  not  produced  a 
work  for  the  last  three  mouths. 


THE  LIBRARY.  97 

There  was  a  motion  made  to  call  ou  the  parson  for  some 
of  his  old  legends  or  ghost  stories  ;  but  to  this  Lady  Lillycraft 
objected,  as  they  were  apt  to  give  her  the  vapors.  General 
Harbottle  gave  a  minute  account,  for  the  sixth  time,  of  the 
disaster  of  a  friend  in  India,  who  had  his  leg  bitten  off  by  a 
tiger,  whilst  he  was  hunting ;  and  was  proceeding  to  menace 
the  company  with  a  chapter  or  two  about  Tippoo  Saib. 

At  length  the  captain  bethought  himself  and  said,  he  believed 
he  had  a  manuscript  tale  lying  in  one  corner  of  his  campaigning 
trunk,  which,  if  he  could  find,  and  the  company  were  desirous, 
he  would  read  to  them.  The  offer  was  eagerly  accepted.  He 
retired,  and  soon  returned  with  a  roll  of  blotted  manuscript,  in 
a  very  gentlemanlike,  but  nearly  illegible,  hand,  and  a  great 
part  written  on  cartridge-paper. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  scribblings,"  said  he,  "  of  my  poor  friend, 
Charles  Lightly,  of  the  dragoons.  He  was  a  curious,  romantic, 
studious,  fanciful  fellow ;  the  favorite,  and  often  the  uncon- 
scious butt  of  his  fellow-officers,  who  entertained  themselves 
with  his  eccentricities.  He  was  in  some  of  the  hardest  service 
in  the  peninsula,  and  distinguished  himself  by  his  gallantry. 
"When  the  intervals  of  duty  permitted,  he  was  fond  of  roving 
about  the  country,  visiting  noted  places,  and  was  extremely 
fond  of  Moorish  ruins.  When  at  his  quarters,  he  was  a  great 
scribbler,  and  passed  much  of  his  leisure  with  his  pen  in  his 
hand. 

"As  I  was  a  much  younger  officer,  and  a  very  young  man, 
he  took  me,  in  a  manner,  under  his  care,  and  we  became  close 
friends.  He  used  often  to  read  his  writings  to  me,  having  a 
great  confidence  in  my  taste,  for  I  always  praised  them.  Poor 
fellow !  he  was  shot  down  close  by  me,  at  Waterloo.  We  lay 
wounded  together  for  some  time,  during  a  hard  contest  that 
took  place  near  at  hand.  As  I  was  least  hurt,  I  tried  to  relieve 
him,  and  to  stanch  the  blood  which  flowed  from  a  wound  in  his 
breast.  He  lay  with  his  head  in  my  lap,  and  looked  up  thank- 
fully in  my  face,  but  shook  his  head  faintly,  and  made  a  sign 
that  it  was  all  over  with  him ;  and,  indeed,  he  died  a  few 
minutes  afterwards,  just  as  our  men  had  repulsed  the  enemy, 
and  came  to  our  relief.  I  have  his  favorite  dog  and  his  pistols 
to  this  day,  and  several  of  his  manuscripts,  which  he  gave  to 
me  at  different  times.  The  one  I  am  now  going  to  read,  is  a 
tale  which  he  said  he  wrote  in  Spain,  during  the  time  that  he 
lay  ill  of  a  wound  received  at  Salamanca." 


98  BBACEBRIDGB  HALL. 

We  now  arranged  ourselves  to  hear  the  story.  The  captain 
seated  himself  on  the  sofa,  beside  the  fair  Julia,  who  I  had 
noticed  to  be  somewhat  affected  by  the  picture  he  had  care- 
lessly drawn  of  wounds  and  dangers  in  a  field  of  battle.  She 
now  leaned  her  arm  fondly  on  his  shoulder,  and  her  eye  glis- 
tened as  it  rested  on  the  manuscript  of  the  poor  literary 
dragoon.  Lady  Lillycraft  buried  herself  in  a  deep,  well-cush- 
ioned elbow-chair.  Her  dogs  were  nestled  on  soft  mats  at  her 
feet ;  and  the  gallant  general  took  his  station  in  an  arm-chair, 
at  her  side,  and  toyed  with  her  elegantly  ornamented  work-bag. 
The  rest  of  the  circle  being  all  equally  well  accommodated,  the 
captain  began  his  story ;  a  copy  of  which  I  have  procured  for 
the  benefit  of  the  reader. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

IHiat  ft  life  doe  I  lead  -with  my  master;  nothing  but  blowing  of  bellowes,  beating  of 
spirits,  and  scraping  of  croslets!  It  Is  a  very  secret  science,  for  none  almost  can  under. 
Stand  the  language  of  it.  Sublimation,  almigation,  calcination,  rubilication,  albitication, 
and  fermentation;  with  as  many  termes  unpossible  to  be  uttered  as  the  arte  to  be  com- 
passed.—LILLY'S  Gallathea. 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  in  the  ancient  city  of  Granada,  there 
sojourned  a  young  man  of  the  name  of  Antonio  de  Castros. 
He  wore  the  garb  of  a  student  of  Salamanca,  and  was  pursuing 
a  course  of  reading  in  the  library  of  the  university ;  and,  at  in- 
tervals of  leisure,  indulging  his  curiosity  by  examining  those 
remains  of  Moorish  magnificence  for  which  Granada  is  re- 
nowned. 

Whilst  occupied  in  his  studies,  he  frequently  noticed  an  old 
man  of  singular  appearance,  who  was  likewise  a  visitor  to 
the  library.  He  was  lean  and  withered,  though  apparently 
more  from  study  than  from  age.  His  eyes,  though  bright  and 
visionary,  were  sunk  hi  his  head,  and  thrown  into  shade  by 
overhanging  eyebrows.  His  dress  was  always  the  same:  a 
black  doublet ;  a  short  black  cloak,  very-  rusty  and  threadbare ; 
a  small  ruff  and  a  large  overshadowing  hat. 

His  appetite  for  knowledge  seemed  insatiable.  He  would 
pass  whole  days  in  the  library,  absorbed  in  study,  consulting  a 
multiplicity  of  authors,  as  though  he  were  pursuing  some 
interesting  subject  through  all  its  ramifications;  so  that, 
when  evening  came,  he  was  almost  buried  among  books  and 
manuscripts. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  99 

The  curiosity  of  Antonio  was  excited,  and  he  inquired  of  the 
attendants  concerning  the  stranger.  No  one  could  give  him 
any  information,  excepting  that  he  had  been  for  some  time 
past  a  casual  frequenter  of  the  library ;  that  his  reading  lay 
chiefly  among  works  treating  of  the  occult  sciences,  and  that 
he  was  particularly  curious  in  his  inquiries  after  Arabian  man- 
uscripts. They  added,  that  he  never  held  communication  with 
any  one,  excepting  to  ask  for  particular  works ;  that,  after  a 
fit  of  studious  application,  he  would  disappear  for  several  days, 
and  even  weeks,  and  when  he  revisited  the  library,  he  would 
look  more  withered  and  haggard  than  ever.  The  student  felt 
interested  by  this  account ;  he  was  leading  rather  a  desultory 
life,  and  had  all  that  capricious  curiosity  which  springs  up  in 
idleness.  He  determined  to  make  himself  acquainted  with  this 
book-worm,  and  find  out  who  and  what  he  was. 

The  next  time  that  he  saw  the  old  man  at  the  library,  he 
commenced  his  approaches  by  requesting  permission  to  look 
into  one  of  the  volumes  with  which  the  unknown  appeared  to 
have  done.  The  latter  merely  bowed  his  head,  in  token  of 
assent.  After  pretending  to  look  through  the  volume  with 
great  attention,  he  returned  it  with  many  acknowledgments 
The  stranger  made  no  reply. 

"May  I  ask,  senor,"  said  Antonio,  with  some  hesitation, 
"  may  1  ask  what  you  are  searching  after  in  all  these  books?  " 

The  old  man  raised  his  head,  with  an  expression  of  surprise, 
at  having  his  studies  interrupted  for  the  first  time,  and  by  so 
intrusive  a  question.  He  surveyed  the  student  with  a  side 
glance  from  head  to  foot :  "  Wisdom,  my  sou,"  said  he,  calmly  ; 
"  and  the  search  requires  every  moment  of  my  attention."  Hi 
then  cast  his  eyes  upon  his  book,  and  resumed  his  studies. 

"But,  father,"  said  Antonio,  "cannot  vou  spare  a  moment 
to  point  out  the  road  to  others?  It  is  to  experienced  travellers 
like  you,  that  we  strangers  in  the  paths  of  knowledge  must 
look  for  directions  on  our  journey." 

The  stranger  looked  disturbed:   "I  have  not  time   enougfi^ 
my  son,  to  learn,"  said  he,  "  much  less  to  teach.     I  am  ignorant     ] 
myself  of  the  path  of  true  knowledge ;  how  then  can  I  show  it- 
toothers?" 

"Well,  but,  father  —  " 

"  Senor,"  said  the  old  man,  mildly,  but  earnestly,  "  you  must 
see  that  I  have  but  a  few  steps  more  to  the  grave.  In  that  short 
space  have  I  to  accomplish  the  whole  business  of  my  existence. 
I  have  no  time  for  words ;  every  word  is  as  one  grain  of  sand 
of  my  glass  wasted.  Suffer  me  to  be  alone." 


100  BEACEBEIDGE   HALL. 

There  was  no  replying  to  so  complete  a  closing  of  the  door 
of  intimacy.  The  student  found  himself  calmly  but  totally 
repulsed.  Though  curious  and  inquisitive,  he  was  naturally 
modest,  and  on  after-thoughts  blushed  at  his  own  intrusion. 
His  mind  soon  became  occupied  by  other  objects.  He  passed 
several  days  wandering  among  the  mouldering  piles  of  Moorish 
architecture,  those  melancholy  monuments  of  an  elegant  and 
voluptuous  people.  He  paced  the  deserted  halls  of  the  Alham- 
bra,  the  paradise  of  the  Moorish  kings.  He  visited  the  great 
court  of  the  lions,  famous  for  the  perfidious  massacre  of  the 
gallant  Abencerrages.  He  gazed  with  admiration  at  its  mosaic 
cupolas,  gorgeously  painted  in  gold  and  azure ;  its  basins  of 
marble,  its  alabaster  vase,  supported  by  lions,  and  storied  with 
inscriptions. 

His  imagination  kindled  as  he  wandered  among  these  scenes. 
They  were  calculated  to  awaken  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a  youth- 
ful mind.  Most  of  the  halls  have  anciently  been  beautified  by 
fountains.  The  fine  taste  of  the  Arabs  delighted  in  the  spar- 
kling purity  and  reviving  freshness  of  water  ;  and  they  erected, 
as  it  were,  altars  on  every  side,  to  that  delicate  element.  Poetry 
mingles  with  architecture  in  the  Alhambra.  It  breathes  along 
the  very  walls.  Wherever  Antonio  turned  his  eye,  he  beheld 
inscriptions  in  Arabic,  wherein  the  perpetuity  of  Moorish  power 
and  splendor  within  these  walls  was  confidently  predicted.  Alas  ! 
how  has  the  prophecy  been  falsified !  Many  of  the  basins, 
where  the  fountains  had  once  thrown  up  their  sparkling  showers, 
were  dry  and  dusty.  Some  of  the  palaces  were  turned  into 
gloomy  convents,  and  the  barefoot  monk  paced  through  those 
courts,  which  had  once  glittered  with  the  array,  and  echoed  to 
the  music,  of  Moorish  chivalry. 

In  the  course  of  his  rambles,  the  student  more  than  once 
encountered  the  old  man  of  the  library.  He  was  always  alone, 
and  so  full  of  thought  as  not  to  notice  any  one  about  him.  He 
appeared  to  be  intent  upon  studying  those  half -buried  inscrip- 
tions, which  are  found,  here  and  there,  among  the  Moorish 
ruins,  and  seem  to  murmur  from  the  earth  the  tale  of  former 
greatness.  The  greater  part  of  these  have  since  been  trans 
lated ;  but  they  were  supposed  by  many  at  the  time,  to  contain 
symbolical  revelations,  and  golden  maxims  of  the  Arabian  sages 
and  astrologers.  As  Antonio  saw  the  stranger  apparently 
deciphering  these  inscriptions,  he  felt  an  eager  longing  to  make 
his  acquaintance,  and  to  participate  in  his  curious  researches ; 
but  the  repulse  he  had  met  with  at  the  library  deterred  him 
from  making  any  further  advances. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  101 

He  had  directed  his  steps  one  evening  to  the  sacred  mount, 
which  overlooks  the  beautiful  valley  watered  by  the  Darro,  the 
fertile  plain  of  the  Vega,  and  all  that  rich  diversity  of  vale  and 
mountain  which  surrounds  Granada  with  an  earthly  paradise.  It 
was  twilight  when  he  found  himself  at  the  place,  where,  at  the 
present  day,  are  situated  the  chapels,  known  by  the  name  of  the 
Sacred  Furnaces.  They  are  so  called  from  grottos,  in  which 
some  of  the  primitive  saints  are  said  to  have  been  burnt.  At 
the  time  of  Antonio's  visit,  the  place  was  an  object  of  much 
curiosity.  In  an  excavation  of  these  grottos,  several  manu- 
scripts had  recently  been  discovered,  engraved  on  plates  of 
lead.  They  were  written  in  the  Arabian  language,  excepting 
one,  which  was  in  unknown  characters.  The  Pope  had  issued 
a  bull,  forbidding  any  one,  under  pain  of  excommunication,  to 
speak  of  these  manuscripts.  The  prohibition  had  only  excited 
the  greater  curiosity ;  and  many  reports  were  whispered  about, 
that  these  manuscripts  contained  treasures  of  dark  and  forbid- 
den knowledge. 

As  Antonio  was  examining  the  place  whence  these  mys- 
terious manuscripts  had  been  drawn,  he  again  observed  the  old 
man  of  the  library  wandering  among  the  ruins.  His  curiosity 
was  now  fully  awakened ;  the  time  and  place  served  to  stimu- 
late it.  He  resolved  to  watch  this  groper  after  secret  and  for- 
gotten lore,  and  to  trace  him  to  his  habitation.  There  was 
something  like  adventure  in  the  thing,  which  charmed  his  roman- 
tic disposition.  He  followed  the  stranger,  therefore,  at  a  little 
distance ;  at  first  cautiously,  but  he  soon  observed  him  to  be  so 
wrapped  in  his  own  thoughts,  as  to  take  little  heed  of  external 
objects. 

They  passed  along  the  skirts  of  the  mountain,  and  then  by 
the  shady  banks  of  the  Darro.  They  pursued  then*  way,  for 
some  distance  from  Granada,  along  a  lonely  road  leading 
among  the  hills.  The  gloom  of  evening  was  gathering,  and  it 
was  quite  dark  when  the  stranger  stopped  at  the  portal  of  a 
solitary  mansion. 

It  appeared  to  be  a  mere  wing,  or  ruined  fragment,  of  what 
had  once  been  a  pile  of  some  consequence.  The  walls  were  of 
great  thickness;  the  windows  narrow,  and  generally  secured 
by  iron  bars.  The  door  was  of  planks,  studded  with  iron 
spikes,  and  had  been  of  great  strength,  though  at  present 
much  decayed.  At  one  end  of  the  mansion  was  a  ruinous 
tower,  in  the  Moorish  style  of  architecture.  The  edifice  had 
probably  been  a  country  retreat,  or  castle  of  pleasure,  during 
the  occupation  of  Granada  bv  the  Moors,  and  rendered  suffi- 


102  &RACEX&IDGE  HALL. 

ciently  strong  to  withstand  any  casual  assault  in  those  warlike 
times. 

The  old  man  knocked  at  the  portal.  A  light  appeared  at  a 
small  window  just  above  it,  and  a  female  head  looked  out :  it 
might  have  served  as  a  model  for  one  of  Raphael's  saints.  The 
hair  was  beautifully  braided,  and  gathered  in  a  silken  net ;  and 
the  complexion,  as  well  as  could  be  judged  from  the  light,  was 
that  soft,  rich  brunette,  so  becoming  in  southern  beauty. 

"  It  is  I,  my  child,"  said  the  old  man.  The  face  instantly 
disappeared,  and  soon  after  a  wicket-door  in  the  large  portal 
opened.  Antonio,  who  had  ventured  near  to  the  building, 
caught  a  transient  sight  of  a  delicate  female  form.  A  pair  of 
fine  black  eyes  darted  a  look  of  surprise  at  seeing  a  stranger 
hovering  near,  and  the  door  was  precipitately  closed. 

There  was  something  in  this  sudden  gleam  of  beauty  that 
wonderfully  struck  the  imagination  of  the  student.  It  was  like 
a  brilliant,  flashing  from  its  dark  casket.  He  sauntered  about, 
regarding  the  gloomy  pile  with  increasing  interest.  A  few  sim- 
ple, wild  notes,  from  among  some  rocks  and  trees  at  a  little 
distance,  attracted  his  attention.  He  found  there  a  group  of 
Gitanas,  a  vagabond  gypsy  race,  which  at  that  time  abounded 
in  Spain,  and  lived  in  hovels  and  caves  of  the  hills  about  the 
neighborhood  of  Granada.  Some  were  busy  about  a  fire,  and 
others  were  listening  to  the  uncouth  music  which  one  of  their 
companions,  seated  on  a  ledge  of  the  rock,  was  making  with  a 
split  reed. 

Antonio  endeavored  to  obtain  some  information  of  them, 
concerning  the  old  building  and  its  inhabitants.  The  one  who 
appeared  to  be  their  spokesman  was  a  gaunt  fellow,  with  a 
subtle  gait,  a  whispering  voice,  and  a  sinister  roll  of  the  eye. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  on  the  student's  inquiries,  and  said 
all  was  not  right  in  that  building.  An  old  man  inhabited  it, 
Whom  nobody  knew,  and  whose  family  appeared  to  be  only 
a  daughter  and  a  female  servant.  "  I  and  my  compan- 
ions," he  added,  "live  up  among  the  neighboring  hills;  and 
as  we  have  been  about  at  night,  we  have  often  seen 
strange  lights,  and  heard  strange  sounds  from  the  tower. 
Some  of  the  country  people,  who  work  in  the  vineyards 
among  the  hills,  believe  the  old  man  deals  in  the  black  art, 
and  they  are  not  over-fond  of  passing  near  the  tower  at  night ; 
but  for  our  parts,  we  Gitanas  are  not  a  people  to  trouble  our- 
selves with  fears  of  that  kind." 

The  student  endeavored  to  gain  more  precise  information, 
but  they  had  none  to  furnish  him.  They  began  to  be  solicitous 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  103 

for  a  compensation  for  what  they  had  already  imparted ;  and, 
recollecting  the  loneliness  of  the  place,  and  the  vagabond  char- 
acter of  his  companions,  he  was  glad  to  give  them  a  gratuity, 
and  hasten  homewards. 

He  sat  down  to  his  studies,  but  his  brain  was  too  full  of  what 
:  he  had  seen  and  heard ;  his  eye  was  upon  the  page,  but  his 
fancy  still  returned  to  the  tower ;  and  he  was  continually  pic- 
turing the  little  window,  with  the  beautiful  head  peeping  out  \ 
or  the  door  half  open,  and  the  nymph-like  form  within.  He 
retired  to  bed,  but  the  same  objects  haunted  his  dreams.  He 
was  young  and  susceptible ;  and  the  excited  state  of  his  feel- 
ings, from  wandering  among  the  abodes  of  departed  grace  and 
gallantry,  had  predisposed  him  for  a  sudden  impression  from 
female  beauty. 

The  next  morning,  he  strolled  again  in  the  direction  of  the 
tower.  It  was  still  more  forlorn,  by  the  broad  glare  of  day, 
than  in  the  gloom  of  evening.  The  walls  were  crumbling,  and 
weeds  and  moss  were  growing  in  every  crevice.  It  had  the 
look  of  a  prison,  rather  than  a  dwelling-house.  In  one  angle, 
however,  he  remarked  a  window  which  seemed  an  exception  to 
the  surrounding  squalidness.  There  was  a  curtain  drawn  within 
it,  and  flowers  standing  on  the  window-stone.  Whilst  he  was 
looking  at  it,  the  curtain  was  partially  withdrawn,  and  a  deli- 
cate white  arm,  of  the  most  beautiful  roundness,  was  put  forth 
to  water  the  flowers. 

The  student  made  a  noise,  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  fair 
florist.  He  succeeded.  The  curtain  was  further  drawn,  and 
he  had  a  glance  of  the  same  lovely  face  he  had  seen  the  evening 
before ;  it  was  but  a  mere  glance  —  the  curtain  again  fell,  and 
the  casement  closed.  All  this  was  calculated  to  excite  the 
feelings  of  a  romantic  youth.  Had  he  seen  the  unknown  under 
other  circumstances,  it  is  probable  he  would  not  have  been 
struck  with  her  beauty ;  but  this  appearance  of  being  shut  up 
and  kept  apart,  gave  her  the  value  of  a  treasured  gem.  He 
passed  and  repassed  before  the  house  several  times  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  but  saw  nothing  more.  He  was  there  again 
in  the  evening.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  house  was  dreary. 
The  narrow  windows  emitted  no  rays  of  cheerful  light,  to  indi- 
cate social  life  within.  Antonio  listened  at  the  portal,  but 
no  sound  of  voices  reached  his  ear.  Just  then  he  heard  the 
clapping  to  of  a  distant  door,  and  fearing  to  be  detected  in 
the  unworthy  act  of  eavesdropping,  he  precipitately  drew  off 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  and  stood  in  the  shadow  of 
a  ruined  archway. 


104  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

He  now  remarked  a  light  from  a  window  in  the  tower.  It 
was  fitful  and  changeable ;  commonly  feeble  and  yellowish,  as 
if  from  a  lamp ;  with  an  occasional  glare  of  some  vivid  metallic 
color,  followed  by  a  dusky  glow.  A  column  of  dense  smoke 
would  now  and  then  rise  in  the  air,  and  hang  like  a  canopy 
over  the  tower.  There  was  altogether  such  a  loneliness  and 
seeming  mystery  about  the  building  and  its  inhabitants,  that 
Antonio  was  half  inclined  to  indulge  the  country  people's 
notions,  and  to  fancy  it  the  den  of  some  powerful  sorcerer,  and 
the  fair  damsel  he  had  seen  to  be  some  spell-bound  beauty. 

After  some  time  had  elapsed,  a  light  appeared  in  the  window 
where  he  had  seen  the  beautiful  arm.  The  curtain  was  down, 
but  it  was  so  thin  that  he  could  perceive  the  shadow  of  some 
one  passing  and  repassing  between  it  and  the  light.  He 
fancied  he  could  distinguish  that  the  form  was  delicate ;  and, 
from  the  alacrity  of  its  movements,  it  was  evidently  youth- 
ful. He  had  not  a  doubt  but  this  was  the  bed-chamber  of 
his  beautiful  unknown. 

Presently  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  guitar,  and  a  female  voice 
singing.  He  drew  near  cautiously,  and  listened.  It  'was  a 
plaintive  Moorish  ballad,  and  he  recognized  in  it  the  lamenta- 
tions of  one  of  the  Abencerrages  on  leaving  the  walls  of  lovely 
Granada.  It  was  full  of  passion  and  tenderness.  It  spoke  of 
the  delights  of  early  life  ;  the  hours  of  love  it  had  enjoyed  on 
the  banks  of  the  Darro,  and  among  the  blissful  abodes  of  the 
Alhambra.  It  bewailed  the  fallen  honors  of  the  Abeucerrages, 
and  imprecated  vengeance  on  their  oppressors.  Antonio  was 
affected  by  the  music.  It  singularly  coincided  with  the  place. 
It  was  like  the  voice  of  past  times  echoed  in  the  present,  and 
breathing  among  the  monuments  of  its  departed  glories. 

The  voice  ceased ;  after  a  time  the  light  disappeared,  and  all 
was  still.  "  She  sleeps  !  "  said  Antonio,  fondly.  He  lingered 
about  the  building,  with  the  devotion  with  which  a  lover 
lingers  about  the  bower  of  sleeping  beauty.  The  rising  moon 
threw  its  silver  beams  on  the  gray  walls,  and  glittered  on  the 
casement.  The  late  gloomy  landscape  gradually  became 
flooded  with  its  radiance.  Finding,  therefore,  that  he  could  no 
longer  move  about  in  obscurity,  and  fearful  that  his  loiterings 
might  be  observed,  he  reluctantly  retired. 

The  curiosity  which  had  at  first  drawn  the  young  man  to  the 
tower,  was  now  seconded  by  feelings  of  a  more  romantic  kind. 
His  studies  were  almost  entirely  abandoned.  He  maintained  a 
kind  of  blockade  of  the  old  mansion ;  he  would  take  a  book 
with  him,  and  pass  a  great  part  of  the  day  under  the  trees  in  its 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  105 

vicinity ;  keeping  a  vigilant  eye  upon  it,  and  endeavoring  to 
ascertain  what  were  the  walks  of  his  mysterious  charmer. 
She  never  went  out,  however,  except  to  mass,  when  she  was 
accompanied  by  her  father.  He  waited  at  the  door  of  the 
church,  and  offered  her  the  holy  water,  in  the  hopes  of  touch- 
ing her  hand ;  a  little  office  of  gallantry  common  in  Catholic 
countries.  She  modestly  declined  without  raising  her  eyes 
to  see  who  made  the  offer,  and  always  took  it  herself  from 
the  font.  She  was  attentive  in  her  devotion ;  her  eyes  were 
never  taken  from  the  altar  or  the  priest ;  and,  on  returning 
home,  her  countenance  was  almost  entirely  concealed  by  her 
mantilla. 

Antonio  had  now  carried  on  the  pursuit  for  several  days,  and 
was  hourly  getting  more  and  more  interested  in  the  chase,  but 
never  a  step  nearer  to  the  game.  His  lurkings  about  the  house 
had  probably  been  noticed,  for  he  no  longer  saw  the  fair  face 
at  the  window,  nor  the  white  arm  put  forth  to  water  the 
flowers.  His  only  consolation  was  to  repair  nightly  to  his  post 
of  observation,  and  listen  to  her  warbling ;  and  if  by  chance  he 
could  catch  a  sight  of  her  shadow,  passing  and  repassing  before 
the  window,  he  thought  himself  most  fortunate. 

As  he  was  indulging  in  one  of  these  evening  vigils,  which  were 
complete  revels  of  the  imagination,  the  sound  of  approaching 
footsteps  made  him  withdraw  into  the  deep  shadow  of  the 
ruined  archway  opposite  to  the  tower.  A  cavalier  approached, 
wrapped  in  a  large  Spanish  cloak.  He  paused  under  the  win- 
dow of  the  tower,  and  after  a  little  while  began  a  serenade, 
accompanied  by  his  guitar,  in  the  usual  style  of  Spanish  gal- 
lantry. His  voice  was  rich  and  manly ;  he  touched  the  instru- 
ment with  skill,  and  sang  with  amorous  and  impassioned 
eloquence.  The  plume  of  his  hat  was  buckled  by  jewels  that 
sparkled  in  the  moonbeams;  and  as  he  played  on  the  guitar, 
his  cloak  falling  off  from  one  shoulder,  showed  him  to  be  richly 
dressed.  He  was  evidently  a  person  of  rank. 

The  idea  now  flashed  across  Antonio's  mind,  that  the  affec- 
tions of  his  unknown  beauty  might  be  engaged.  She  was 
young,  and  doubtless  susceptible  ;  and  it  was  not  in  the  nature 
of  Spanish  females  to  be  deaf  and  insensible  to  music  and  ad- 
miration. The  surmise  brought  with  it  a  feeling  of  dreariness. 
There  was  a  pleasant  dream  of  several  days  suddenly  dispelled. 
He  had  never  before  experienced  any  thing  of  the  tender  pas- 
sions ;  and,  as  its  morning  dreams  are  always  delightful,  he 
would  fain  have  continued  in  the  delusion. 

"  But  what  have  I  to  do  with  her  attachments?  "  thought  he ; 


106  BRACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

"I  have  no  claim  on  her  heart,  nor  even  on  her  acquaintance. 
How  do  I  know  that  she  is  worthy  of  affection  ?  Or  if  she  is, 
must  not  so  gallant  a  lover  as  this,  with  his  jewels,  his  rank, 
and  his  detestable  music,  have  completely  captivated  her? 
What  idle  humor  is  this  that  I  have  fallen  into?  I  must  again 
to  my  books.  Study,  study,  will  soon  chase  away  all  these  idle 
fancies !  " 

The  more  he  thought,  however,  the  more  he  became  entangled 
in  the  spell  which  his  lively  imagination  had  woven  round  him ; 
and  now  that  a  rival  had  appeared,  in  addition  to  the  other 
obstacles  that  environed  this  enchanted  beauty,  she  appeared 
ten  times  more  lovely  and  desirable.  It  was  some  slight  conso- 
lation to  him  to  perceive  that  the  gallantry  of  the  unknown 
met  with  no  apparent  return  from  the  tower.  The  light  at  the 
window  was  extinguished.  The  curtain  remained  undrawn, 
and  none  of  the  customary  signals  were  given  to  intimate  that 
the  serenade  was  accepted. 

The  cavalier  lingered  for  some  time  about  the  place,  and  sang 
several  other  tender  airs  with  a  taste  and  feeling  that  made 
Antonio's  heart  ache  ;  at  length  he  slowly  retired.  The  student 
remained  with  folded  arms,  leaning  against  the  ruined  arch, 
endeavoring  to  summon  up  resolution  to  depart ;  but  a  romantic 
fascination  still  enchained  him  to  the  place.  "It  is  the  last 
time,"  said  he,  willing  to  compromise  between  his  feelings  and 
his  judgment,  "  it  is  the  last  tune ;  then  let  me  enjoy  the  dream 
a  few  moments  longer." 

As  his  eye  ranged  about  the  old  building  to  take  a  farewell 
look,  he  observed  the  strange  light  in  the  tower,  which  he  had 
noticed  on  a  former  occasion.  It  kept  beaming  up,  and  declin- 
ing, as  before.  A  pillar  of  smoke  rose  in  the  air,  and  hung  in 
sable  volumes.  It  was  evident  the  old  man  was  busied  in  some 
of  those  operations  that  had  gained  him  the  reputation  of  a 
sorcerer  throughout  the  neighborhood. 

Suddenly  an  intense  and  brilliant  glare  shone  through  the 
casement,  followed  by  a  loud  report,  and  then  a  fierce  and 
ruddy  glow.  A  figure  appeared  at  the  window,  uttering  cries 
of  agony  or  alarm,  but  immediately  disappeared,  and  a  body 
of  smoke  and  flame  whirled  out  of  the  narrow  aperture.  An- 
tonio rushed  to  the  portal,  and  knocked  at  it  with  vehemence. 
He  was  only  answered  by  loud  shrieks,  and  found  that  the 
females  were  already  in  helpless  consternation.  With  an  exer- 
tion of  desperate  strength  he  forced  the  wicket  from  its  hinges, 
and  rushed  into  the  house. 

He  foucd  himself  in  a  small  vaulted  hall,  and,  by  the  light  of 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  10? 

ttie  moon  which  entered  at  the  door,  he  saw  a  staircase  to  the 
left.  He  hurried  up  it  to  a  narrow  corridor  through  which 
was  rolling  a  volume  of  smoke.  He  found  here  the  two  females 
in  a  frantic  state  of  alarm ;  one  of  them  clasped  her  hands,  and 
implored  him  to  save  her  father. 

The  corridor  terminated  in  a  spiral  flight  of  steps,  leading  up 
to  the  tower.  He  sprang  up  it  to  a  small  door,  through  the 
chinks  of  which  came  a  glow  of  light,  and  smoke  was  spuming 
out.  He  burst  it  open,  and  found  himself  in  an  antique  vaulted 
chamber,  furnished  with  furnace  and  various  chemical  appa- 
ratus. A  shattered  retort  lay  on  the  stone  floor ;  a  quantity  of 
combustibles,  nearly  consumed,  with  various  half-burnt  books 
and  papers,  were  sending  up  an  expiring  flame,  and  filling  the 
chamber  with  stifling  smoke.  Just  within  the  threshold  lay  the 
reputed  conjurer.  He  was  bleeding,  his  clothes  were  scorched, 
and  he  appeared  lifeless.  Antonio  caught  him  up,  and  bore  him 
down  the  stairs  to  a  chamber,  in  which  there  was  a  light,  and 
laid  him  on  a  bed.  The  female  domestic  was  despatched  for 
such  appliances  as  the  house  afforded ;  but  the  daughter  threw 
herself  frantically  beside  her  parent,  and  could  not  be  reasoned 
out  of  her  alarm.  Her  dress  was  all  in  disorder ;  her  dishev- 
elled hair  hung  in  rich  confusion  about  her  neck  and  bosom, 
and  never  was  there  beheld  a  lovelier  picture  of  terror  and 
affliction. 

The  skilful  assiduities  of  the  scholar  soon  produced  signs  of 
returning  animation  in  his  patient.  The  old  man's  wounds, 
though  severe,  were  not  dangerous.  They  had  evidently  been 
produced  by  the  bursting  of  the  retort ;  in  his  bewilderment  he 
had  been  enveloped  in  the  stifling  metallic  vapors,  which  had 
overpowered  his  feeble  frame,  and  had  not  Antonio  arrived  to 
his  assistance,  it  is  possible  he  might  never  have  recovered. 

By  slow  degrees  he  came  to  his  senses.  He  looked  about 
with  a  bewildered  air  at  the  chamber,  the  agitated  group  around, 
and  the  student  who  was  leaning  over  him. 

"  Where  am  I?  "  said  he  wildly. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  his  daughter  uttered  a  faint  excla- 
mation of  delight.  "  My  poor  Inez  !  "  said  he,  embracing  her ; 
then,  putting  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  taking  it  away  stained 
with  blood,  he  seemed  suddenly  to  recollect  himself,  and  to  be 
overcome  with  emotion. 

"  Ah !  "  cried  he,  "  all  is  over  with  me  !  all  gone  !  all  van- 
ished !  gone  in  a  moment !  the  labor  of  a  lifetime  lost !  " 

His  daughter  attempted  to  soothe  him,  but  he  became  slightly 
delirious,  and  raved  incoherently  about  malignant  demons,  and 


108  BKACEBRIDGE   HALL. 

about  the  habitation  of  the  green  lion  being  destroyed.  His 
wounds  being  dressed,  and  such  other  remedies  administered 
as  his  situation  required,  he  sunk  into  a  state  of  quiet.  An- 
tonio now  turned  his  attention  to  the  daughter,  whose  suffer- 
ings had  been  little  inferior  to  those  of  her  father.  Having 
with  great  difficulty  succeeded  in  tranquillizing  her  fears,  he 
endeavored  to  prevail  upon  her  to  retire,  and  seek  the  repose 
so  necessary  to  her  frame,  proffering  to  remain  by  her  father 
until  morning.  "I  am  a  stranger,"  said  he,  "it  is  true,  and 
my  offer  may  appear  intrusive ;  but  I  see  you  are  lonely  and 
helpless,  and  I  cannot  help  venturing  over  the  limits  of  mere 
ceremony.  Should  you  feel  any  scruple  or  doubt,  however,  say 
but  a  word,  and  I  will  instantly  retire." 

There  was  a  frankness,  a  kindness,  and  a  modesty,  mingled 
in  Antonio's  deportment,  which  inspired  instant  confidence  ;  and 
his  simple  scholar's  garb  was  a  recommendation  in  the  house 
of  poverty.  The  females  consented  to  resign  the  sufferer  to 
his  care,  as  they  would  be  the  better  able  to  attend  to  him  on 
the  morrow.  On  retiring,  the  old  domestic  was  profuse  in  her 
benedictions ;  the  daughter  only  looked  her  thanks ;  but  as 
they  shone  through  the  tears  that  filled  her  fine  black  eyes,  the 
student  thought  them  a  thousand  times  the  most  eloquent. 

Here,  then,  he  was,  by  a  singular  turn  of  chance,  completely 
housed  within  this  mysterious  mansion.  When  left  to  himself, 
and  the  bustle  of  the  scene  was  over,  his  heart  throbbed  as  he 
looked  round  the  chamber  in  which  he  was  sitting.  It  was  the 
daughter's  room,  the  promised  land  toward  which  he  had  cast 
so  many  a  longing  gaze.  The  furniture  was  old,  and  had  prob- 
ably belonged  to  the  building  in  its  prosperous  days ;  but  every 
thing  was  arranged  with  propriety.  The  flowers  which  he  had 
seen  her  attend  stood  in  the  window ;  a  guitar  leaned  against  a 
table,  on  which  stood  a  crucifix,  and  before  it  lay  a  missal  and 
a  rosary.  There  reigned  an  air  of  purity  and  serenity  about 
this  little  nestling-place  of  innocence ;  it  was  the  emblem  of  a 
chaste  and  quiet  mind.  Some  few  articles  of  female  dress  lay 
on  the  chairs ;  and  there  was  the  very  bed  on  which  she  had 
slept  —  the  pillow  on  which  her  soft  cheek  had  reclined !  The 
poor  scholar  was  treading  enchanted  ground;  for  what  fairy 
land  has  more  magic  in  it,  than  the  bed-chamber  of  inno- 
cence and  beauty? 

From  various  expressions  of  the  old  man  in  his  ravings,  and 
from  what  he  had  noticed  on  a  subsequent  visit  to  the  tower, 
to  see  that  the  fire  was  extinguished,  Antonio  had  gathered 
that  his  patient  was  an  alchemist.  The  philosopher's  stone 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  109 

was  an  object  eagerly  sought  after  by  visionaries  in  those  days  ; 
but  in  consequence  of  the  superstitious  prejudices  of  the  times, 
and  the  frequent  persecutions  of  its  votaries,  they  were  apt  to 
pursue  their  experiments  in  secret ;  in  lonely  houses,  in  caverns 
and  ruins,  or  in  the  privacy  of  cloistered  cells. 

In  the  course  of  the  night,  the  old  man  had  several  fits  of 
restlessness  and  delirium ;  he  would  call  out  upon  Theophras- 
tus,  and  Geber,  and  Albertus  Magnus,  and  other  sages  of  his 
art ;  and  anon  would  murmur  about  fermentation  and  projec- 
tion, until,  toward  daylight,  he  once  more  sunk  into  a  salutary 
sleep.  When  the  morning  sun  darted  his  rays  into  the  case- 
ment, the  fair  Inez,  attended  by  the  female  domestic,  came 
blushing  into  the  chamber.  The  student  now  took  his  leave, 
having  himself  need  of  repose,  but  obtaining  ready  permission 
to  return  and  inquire  after  the  sufferer. 

When  he  called  again,  he  found  the  alchemist  languid  and  in 
pain,  but  apparently  suffering  more  in  mind  than  in  body.  His 
delirium  had  left  him,  and  he  had  been  informed  of  the  particu- 
lars of  his  deliverance,  and  of  the  subsequent  attentions  of  the 
scholar.  He  could  do  little  more  than  look  his  thanks,  but 
Antonio  did  not  require  them ;  his  own  heart  repaid  him  for 
all  that  he  had  done,  and  he  almost  rejoiced  in  the  disaster  that 
had  gained  him  an  entrance  into  this  mysterious  habitation. 
The  alchemist  was  so  helpless  as  to  need  much  assistance ; 
Antonio  remained  with  him,  therefore,  the  greater  part  of  the 
day.  He  repeated  his  visit  the  next  day,  and  the  next.  Every 
day  his  company  seemed  more  pleasing  to  the  invalid ;  and 
every  day  he  felt  his  interest  in  the  latter  increasing.  Perhaps 
the  presence  of  the  daughter  might  have  been  at  the  bottom  of 
this  solicitude. 

He  had  frequent  and  long  conversations  with  the  alchemist. 
He  found  him,  as  men  of  his  pursuits  were  apt  to  be,  a  mixture 
of  enthusiasm  and  simplicity  ;  of  curious  and  extensive  reading 
on  points  of  little  utility,  with  great  inattention  to  the  every- 
day occurrences  of  life,  and  profound  ignorance  of  the  world. 
He  was  deeply  versed  in  singular  and  obscure  branches  of 
knowledge,  and  much  given  to  visionary  speculations.  Anto- 
nio, whose  mind  was  of  a  romantic  cast,  had  himserf  given  some 
attention  to  the  occult  sciences,  and  he  entered  upon  these 
themes  with  an  ardor  that  delighted  the  philosopher.  Their 
conversations  frequently  turned  upon  astrology,  divination,  and 
the  great  secret.  The  old  man  would  forget  his  aches  and 
wounds,  rise  up  like  a  spectre  in  his  bed,  and  kindle  into  elo- 
quence on  his  favorite  topics.  When  gently  admonished  of 


110  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

his   situation,   it  would   but  prompt   him  to  another  sally  of 
ight. 

Alas,  my  son  !  "  he  would  say,  "  is  not  this  very  decrepi- 
tude and  suffering  another  proof  of  the  importance  of  those 
secrets  with  which  we  are  surrounded?  Why  are  we  trammelled 
by  disease,  withered  by  old  age,  and  our  spirits  quenched,  as  it 

;re,  within  us,  but  because  we  have  lost  those  secrets  of  life 
and  youth  which  were  known  to  our  parents  before  their  fall? 
To  regain  these,  have  philosophers  been  ever  since  aspiring ; 
but  just  as  they  are  on  the  point  of  securing  the  precious  secrets 
forever,  the  brief  period  of  life  is  at  an  end  ;  they  die,  and  with 
them  all  their  wisdom  and  experience.  '  Nothing,'  as  De  Nuys- 
ment  observes,  '  nothing  is  wanting  for  man's  perfection  but  a 
_  :r  life,  less  crossed  with  sorrows  and  maladies,  to  the  at- 

lining  of  the  full  and  perfect  knowledge  of  things.'  " 

igth  Antonio  so  far  gained  on  the  heart  of  his  patient., 
as  to  draw  from  him  the  outlines  of  his  story. 

Felix  de  Vasques,  the  alchemist,  was  a  native  of  Castile,  and 
of  an  ancient  and  honorable  line.  Early  in  life  he  had  married 
a  beautiful  female,  a  descendant  from  one  of  the  Moorish  fami- 
lies. The  marriage  displeased  his  father,  who  considered  the 
pure  Spanish  blood  contaminated  by  this  foreign  mixture.  It 
is  true,  the  lady  traced  her  descent  from  one  of  the  Abencer- 
rages,  the  most  gallant  of  Moorish  cavaliers,  who  had  embraced 
the  Christian  faith  on  being  exiled  from  the  walls  of  Granada. 
The  injured  pride  of  the  father,  however,  was  not  to  be  ap- 
peased. He  never  saw  his  son  afterwards,  and  on  dying  left 
him  but  a  scanty  portion  of  his  estate  ;  bequeathing  the  residue, 
in  the  piety  and  bitterness  of  his  heart,  to  the  erection  of  con- 
vents, and  the  performance  of  masses  for  souls  in  purgatory. 
Don  Felix  resided  for  a  long  time  in  the  neighborhood  of  Val- 
ladolid,  in  a  state  of  embarrassment  and  obscurity.  He  devoted 
himself  to  intense  study,  having,  while  at  the  university  of 
Salamanca,  imbibed  a  taste  for  the  secret  sciences.  He  was 
enthusiastic  and  speculative ;  he  went  on  from  one  branch  of 
knowledge  to  another,  until  he  became  zealous  in  the  search 
after  the  grand  Arcanum. 

He  had  at  first  engaged  in  the  pursuit  with  the  hopes  of  rais- 
ing himself  from  his  present  obscurity,  and  resuming  the  rank 
and  dignity  to  which  his  birth  entitled  him  ;  but,  as  usual,  it 
ended  in  absorbing  every  thought,  and  becoming  the  business 
of  his  existence.  He  was  at  length  aroused  from  this  mental 
abstraction,  by  the  calamities  of  his  household.  A  malignant 
fever  swept  off  his  wife  and  all  his  children,  excepting  an  infant 


THE   STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  Ill 

daughter.  These  losses  for  a  time  overwhelmed  and  stupefied 
him.  His  home  had  in  a  manner  died  away  from  around  him, 
and  he  felt  lonely  and  forlorn.  When  his  spirit  revived  within 
him,  he  determined  to  abandon  the  scene  of  his  humiliation  and 
disaster ;  to  bear  away  the  child  that  was  still  left  him  beyond 
the  scene  of  contagion,  and  never  to  return  to  Castile  until  he 
should  be  enabled  to  reclaim  the  honors  of  his  line. 

He  had  ever  since  been  wandering  and  unsettled  in  his  abode ; 
—  sometimes  the  resident  of  populous  cities,  at  other  times  of 
absolute  solitudes.  He  had  searched  libraries,  meditated  on 
inscriptions,  visited  adepts  of  different  countries,  and  sought  to 
gather  and  concentrate  the  rays  which  had  been  thrown  by  vari- 
ous minds  upon  the  secrets  of  alchemy.  He  had  at  one  time 
travelled  quite  to  Padua  to  search  for  the  manuscripts  of  Pietro 
d'Abano,  and  to  inspect  an  urn  which  had  been  dug  up  near 
Este,  supposed  to  have  been  buried  by  Maximus  Olybius,  and 
to  have  contained  the  grand  elixir.1 

While  at  Padua  he  met  with  an  adept  versed  in  Arabian  lore, 
who  talked  of  the  invaluable  manuscripts  that  must  remain 
in  the  Spanish  libraries,  preserved  from  the  spoils  of  the  Moor- 
ish academies  and  universities ;  of  the  probability  of  meeting 
with  precious  unpublished  writings  of  Geber,  and  Alfarabius, 
and  Avicenna,  the  great  physicians  of  the  Arabian  schools,  who, 
it  was  well  known,  had  treated  much  of  alchemy ;  but,  above 
all,  he  spoke  of  the  Arabian  tablets  of  lead,  which  had  recently 
been  dug  up  in  the  neighborhood  of  Granada,  and  which,  it  was 
confidently  believed  among  adepts,  contained  the  lost  secrets 
of  the  art. 

The  indefatigable  alchemist  once  more  bent  his  steps  for 
Spain,  full  of  renovated  hope.  He  had  made  his  way  to 
Granada :  he  had  wearied  himself  in  the  study  of  Arabic,  in 
deciphering  inscriptions,  in  rummaging  libraries,  and  exploring 
every  possible  trace  left  by  the  Arabian  sages. 

In  all  his  wanderings,  he  had  been  accompanied  by  Inez 
through  the  rough  and  the  smooth,  the  pleasant  and  the  ad- 
verse ;  never  complaining,  but  rather  seeking  to  soothe  his 
cares  by  her  innocent  and  playful  caresses.  Her  instruction 

'This  urn  was  found  in  1533.  It  contained  a  lesser  one  in  which  was  a  burning 
lamp  betwixt  two  small  vials,  the  one  of  gold,  the  other  of  silver,  both  of  them  full  of  a 
very  clear  liquor.  On  the  largest  was  an  inscription,  stating  that  Maximus  Olybiua  shut 
up  in  this  email  vessel  elements  which  he  had  prepared  with  great  toil.  There  were 
many  disquisitions  among  the  learned  on  the  subject.  It  was  the  most  received  opinion, 
that  this  Maximus  Olybius  was  an  inhabitant  of  Padua,  that  he  had  discovered  the  great 
secret,  and  that  these  vessels  contained  liquor,  one  to  transmute  metals  to  gold,  the  other 
to  silver.  The  peasants  who  found  the  urns,  imagining  this  precious  liquor  to  be  com- 
mon water,  spilt  every  drop,  so  that  the  art  of  transmuting  metals  remains  as  much  a 
secret  as  ever. 


112  BRACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

had  been  the  employment  and  the  delight  of  his  hours  of  relax- 
ation. She  had  grown  up  while  they  were  wandering,  and  had 
scarcely  ever  known  any  home  but  by  his  side.  He  was  family, 
friends,  home,  every  thing  to  her.  He  had  carried  her  in  his 
arms,  when  they  first  began  their  wayfaring ;  had  nestled  her, 
as  an  eagle  does  its  young,  among  the  rocky  heights  of  the  Sierra 
Morena ;  she  had  sported  about  him  in  childhood,  in  the  soli- 
tudes of  the  Bateucas ;  had  followed  him,  as  a  lamb  does  the 
shepherd,  over  the  rugged  Pyrenees,  and  into  the  fair  plains 
of  Languedoc ;  and  now  she  was  grown  up  to  support  his  feeble 
steps  among  the  ruined  abodes  of  her  maternal  ancestors. 

His  property  had  gradually  wasted  away,  in  the  course  of  his 
travels  and  his  experiments.  Still  hope,  the  constant  attendant 
of  the  alchemist,  had  led  him  on ;  ever  on  the  point  of  reaping 
the  reward  of  his  labors,  and  ever  disappointed.  With  the 
credulity  that  often  attended  his  art,  he  attributed  many  of  his 
disappointments  to  the  machination  of  the  malignant  spirits 
that  beset  the  paths  of  the  alchemist  and  torment  him  in  his 
solitary  labors.  "It  is  their  constant  endeavor,"  he  observed, 
'•"  to  close  up  every  avenue  to  those  sublime  truths,  which 
would  enable  man  to  rise  above  the  abject  state  into  which  he 
has  fallen,  and  to  return  to  his  original  perfection."  To  the 
evil  offices  of  these  demons,  he  attributed  his  late  disaster. 
He  had  been  on  the  very  verge  of  the  glorious  discovery ; 
never  were  the  indications  more  completely  auspicious  ;  all  was 
going  on  prosperously,  when,  at  the  critical  moment  which 
should  have  crowned  his  labors  with  success,  and  have  placed 
him  at  the  very  summit  of  human  power  and  felicity,  the 
bursting  of  a  retort  had  reduced  his  laboratory  and  himself  to 
ruins. 

"I  must  now,"  said  he,  "give  up  at  the  very  threshold  of 
success.  My  books  and  papers  are  burnt;  my  apparatus  is 
broken.  I  am  too  old  to  bear  up  against  these  evils.  The 
ardor  that  once  inspired  me  is  gone  ;  my  poor  frame  is  exhausted 
by  study  and  watchfulness,  and  this  last  misfortune  has  hur- 
ried me  towards  the  grave."  He  concluded  in  a  tone  of  deep 
dejection.  Antonio  endeavored  to  comfort  and  reassure  him ; 
but  the  poor  alchemist  had  for  once  awakened  to  a  conscious- 
ness of  the  worldly  ills  gathering  around  him,  and  had 
sunk  into  despondency.  After  a  pause,  and  some  thought- 
fulness  and  perplexity  of  brow,  Antonio  ventured  to  make  a 
proposal. 

"I  have  long,"  said  he,  "  been  filled  with  a  love  for  the  secret 
sciences,  but  have  felt  too  ignorant  and  diffident  to  give  myself 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  113 

up  to  them.  You  have  acquired  experience  ;  you  have  amassed 
the  knowledge  of  a  lifetime  ;  it  were  a  pity  it  should  be  thrown 
away.  You  say  you  are  too  old  to  renew  the  toils  of  the  labo- 
ratory ;  suffer  me  to  undertake  them.  Add  your  knowledge  to 
my  youth  and  activity,  and  what  shall  we  not  accomplish?  As 
a  probationary  fee,  and  a  fund  on  which  to  proceed,  I  will  bring 
into  the  common  stock  a  sum  of  gold,  the  residue  of  a  legacy, 
which  has  enabled  me  to  complete  my  education.  A  poor  scholar 
cannot  boast  much ;  but  I  trust  we  shall  soon  put  ourselves 
beyond  the  reach  of  want ;  and  if  we  should  fail,  why,  I  must 
depend,  like  other  scholars,  upon  my  brains  to  carry  me  through 
the  world." 

The  philosopher's  spirits,  however,  were  more  depressed  than 
the  student  had  imagined.  This  last  shock,  following  in  the 
rear  of  so  man}"  disappointments,  had  almost  destroyed  the 
reaction  of  his  mind.  The  fire  of  an  enthusiast,  however,  is 
never  so  low  but  that  it  may  be  blown  again  into  a  flame.  By 
degrees,  the  old  man  was  cheered  and  reanimated  by  the  buoy- 
ancy and  ardor  of  his  sanguine  companion.  He  at  length 
agreed  to  accept  of  the  services  of  the  student,  and  once  more 
to  renew  his  experiments.  He  objected,  however,  to  using 
the  student's  gold,  notwithstanding  his  own  was  nearly  ex- 
hausted ;  but  this  objection  was  soon  overcome ;  the  student 
insisted  on  making  it  a  common  stock  and  common  cause ;  — 
and  then  how  absurd  was  any  delicacy  about  such  a  trifle,  with 
men  who  looked  forward  to  discovering  the  philosopher's  stone  ! 

While,  therefore,  the  alchemist  was  slowly  recovering,  the 
student  busied  himself  in  getting  the  laboratory  once  more  in 
order.  It  was  strewed  with  the  wrecks  of  retorts  and  alembics, 
with  old  crucibles,  boxes  and  phials  of  powders  and  tinctures, 
and  half-burnt  books  and  manuscripts. 

As  soon  as  the  old  man  was  sufficiently  recovered,  the  studies 
and  experiments  were  renewed.  The  student  became  a  privi- 
leged and  frequent  visitor,  and  was  indefatigable  in  his  toils  in 
the  laboratory.  The  philosopher  daily  derived  new  zeal  and 
spirits  from  the  animation  of  his  disciple.  He  was  now  enabled 
to  prosecute  the  enterprise  with  continued  exertion,  having  so 
active  a  coadjutor  to  divide  the  toil.  While  he  was  poring  over 
the  writings  of  Sandivogius,  and  Philalethes,  and  Dominus  de 
Nuysment,  and  endeavoring  to  comprehend  the  symbolical  lan- 
guage in  which  the}*  have  locked  up  their  mysteries,  Antonio 
would  occupy  himself  among  the  retorts  and  crucibles,  and  keep 
the  furnace  in  a  perpetual  glow. 

With  all  his  zeal,  however,  for  the  discovery  of  the  golden 


114  BRACBBRWGE  HALL. 

art,  the  feelings  of  the  student  had  not  cooled  as  to  the  object 
that  first  drew  him  to  this  ruinous  mansion.  During  the  old 
man's  illness,  he  had  frequent  opportunities  of  being  near  the 
daughter ;  and  every  day  made  him  more  sensible  to  her  charms. 
There  was  a  pure  simplicity,  and  an  almost  passive  gentleness, 
in  her  manners ;  yet  with  all  this  was  mingled  something, 
whether  mere  maiden  shyness,  or  a  consciousness  of  high  de- 
scent, or  a  dash  of  Castilian  pride,  or  perhaps  all  united,  that 
prevented  undue  familiarit}',  and  made  her  difficult  of  approach. 
The  danger  of  her  father,  and  the  measures  to  be  taken  for  his 
relief,  had  at  first  overcome  this  coyness  and  reserve ;  but  as 
he  recovered  and  her  alarm  subsided,  she  seemed  to  shrink  from 
the  familiarity  she  had  indulged  with  the  youthful  stranger,  and 
to  become  every  day  more  shy  and  silent. 

Antonio  had  read  many  books,  but  this  was  the  first  volume 
of  womankind  that  he  had  ever  studied.  He  had  been  capti- 
vated with  the  very  title-page ;  but  the  further  he  read,  the 
more  he  was  delighted.  She  seemed  formed  to  love  ;  her  soft 
black  eye  rolled  languidly  under  its  long  silken  lashes,  and 
wherever  it  turned,  it  would  linger  and  repose  ;  there  was  ten- 
derness in  every  beam.  To  him  alone  she  was  reserved  and 
distant.  Now  that  the  common  cares  of  the  sick-room  were  at 
an  end,  he  saw  little  more  of  her  than  before  his  admission  to 
the  house.  Sometimes  he  met  her  on  his  way  to  and  from  the 
laboratory,  and  at  such  times  there  was  ever  a  smile  and  a 
blush ;  but,  after  a  simple  salutation,  she  glided  on  and  disap- 
peared. 

"  'Tis  plain,"  thought  Antonio,  "  my  presence  is  indifferent, 
if  not  irksome  to  her.  She  has  noticed  my  admiration,  and  is 
determined  to  discourage  it ;  nothing  but  a  feeling  of  gratitude 
prevents  her  treating  me  with  marked  distaste  —  and  then  has 
she  not  another  lover,  rich,  gallant,  splendid,  musical?  how  can 
I  suppose  she  would  turn  her  eyes  from  so  brilliant  a  cavalier, 
to  a  poor  obscure  student,  raking  among  the  cinders  of  her 
father's  laboratory?" 

Indeed,  the  idea  of  the  amorous  serenader  continually  haunted 
his  mind.  He  felt  convinced  that  he  was  a  favored  lover ;  yet, 
if  so,  why  did  he  not  frequent  the  tower? — why  did  he  not 
make  his  approaches  by  noon-da}'?  There  was  mystery  in  this 
eavesdropping  and  musical  courtship.  Surely  Inez  could  not 
be  encouraging  a  secret  intrigue !  Oh !  no !  she  was  too  art- 
less, too  pure,  too  ingenuous !  But  then  the  Spanish  females 
were  so  prone  to  love  and  intrigue ;  and  music  and  moonlight 
were  so  seductive,  and  Inez  had  such  a  tender  soul  languishing 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  115 

in  every  look.  —  "Oh  !  "  would  the  poor  scholar  exclaim,  clasp- 
ing his  hands,  "  oh,  that  I  could  but  once  behold  those  loving 
eyes  beaming  on  me  with  affection  !  " 

It  is  incredible  to  those  who  have  not  experienced  it,  on  what 
scanty  aliment  human  life  and  human  love  may  be  supported. 
A  dry  crust,  thrown  now  and  then  to  a  starving  man,  will  give 
him  a  new  lease  of  existence  ;  and  a  faint  smile,  or  a  kind  look, 
bestowed  at  casual  intervals,  will  keep  a  lover  loving  on,  when 
a  man  in  his  sober  senses  would  despair;  — 

When  Antonio  found  himself  alone  in  the  laboratory,  his 
mind  would  be  haunted  by  one  of  these  looks,  or  smiles,  which 
he  had  received  in  passing.  He  would  set  it  in  every  possible 
light,  and  argue  on  it  with  all  the  self-pleasing,  self-teasing 
logic  of  a  lover. 

The  country  around  him  was  enough  to  awaken  that  volup- 
tuousness of  feeling  so  favorable  to  tho  growth  of  passion. 
The  window  of  the  tower  rose  above  the  trees  of  the  romantic 
valley  of  the  Darro,  and  looked  down  upon  some  of  the  loveli- 
est scenery  of  the  Vega,  where  groves  of  citron  and  orange 
were  refreshed  by  cool  springs  and  brooks  of  the  purest  water. 
The  Xenel  and  the  Darro  wound  their  shining  streams  along 
the  plain,  and  gleamed  from  among  its  bowers.  The  surround- 
ing hills  were  covered  with  vineyards,  and  the  mountains, 
crowned  with  snow,  seemed  to  melt  into  the  blue  sky.  The 
delicate  airs  that  played  about  the  tower  were  perfumed  by  the 
fragrance  of  myrtle  and  orange-blossoms,  and  the  ear  was 
charmed  with  the  fond  warbling  of  the  nightingale,  which,  in 
these  happy  regions,  sings  the  whole  day  long.  Sometimes, 
too,  there  was  the  idle  song  of  the  muleteer,  sauntering  along 
the  solitary  road  ;  or  the  notes  of  the  guitar,  from  some  group 
of  peasants  dancing  in  the  shade.  All  these  were  enough  to 
fill  the  head  of  a  young  lover  with  poetic  fancies ;  and  Autonkf 
would  picture  to  himself  how  he  could  loiter  among  those  happy 
groves,  and  wander  by  those  gentle  rivers,  and  love  away  his 
life  with  Inez. 

He  felt  at  times  impatient  at  his  own  weakness,  and  would 
endeavor  to  brush  away  these  cobwebs  of  the  mind.  He  would 
turn  his  thought,  with  sudden  effort,  to  his  occult  studies,  or 
occupy  himself  in  some  perplexing  process ;  but  often,  when  he 
had  partially  succeeded  in  fixing  his  attention,  the  sound  of 
Inez's  lute,  or  the  soft  notes  of  her  voice,  would  come  stealing 
upon  the  stillness  of  the  chamber,  and,  as  it  were,  floating 
round  the  tower.  There  was  no  great  art  in  her  performance ; 
but  Antonio  thought  he  had  nevei^  heard  music  comparable  to 


116  BRACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

this.  It  was  perfect  witchcraft  to  hear  her  warble  forth  some 
of  her  national  melodies ;  those  little  Spanish  romances  and 
Moorish  ballads,  which  transport  the  hearer,  in  idea,  to  the  banks 
of  the  Guadalquivir,  or  the  walls  of  the  Alhambra,  and  make 
him  dream  of  beauties,  and  balconies,  and  moonlight  serenades. 

Never  was  poor  student  more  sadly  beset  than  Antonio. 
Love  is  a  troublesome  companion  in  a  study,  at  the  best  of 
times  ;  but  in  the  laboratory  of  an  alchemist,  his  intrusion  is 
terribly  disastrous.  Instead  of  attending  to  the  retorts  and 
crucibles,  and  watching  the  process  of  some  experiment  in- 
trusted to  his  charge,  the  student  would  get  entranced  in  one 
of  these  love-dreams,  from  which  he  would  often  be  aroused 
by  some  fatal  catastrophe.  The  philosopher,  on  returning  from 
his  researches  in  the  libraries,  would  find  every  thing  gone 
wrong,  and  Antonio  in  despair  over  the  ruins  of  the  whole 
day's  work.  The  old  man,  however,  took  all  quietly,  for  his 
had  been  a  life  of  experiment  and  failure. 

"  We  must  have  patience,  my  son,"  would  he  say,  "  as  all 
the  great  masters  that  have  gone  before  us  have  had.  Errors, 
and  accidents,  and  delays  are  what  we  have  to  contend  with. 
Did  not  Pontanus  err  two  hundred  times,  before  he  could  ob- 
tain even  the  matter  on  which  to  found  his  experiments?  The 
great  Flamel,  too,  did  he  not  labor  four-and-twenty  years, 
before  he  ascertained  the  first  agent?  What  difficulties  and 
hardships  did  not  Cartilaceus  encounter,  at  the  very  threshold 
of  his  discoveries  ?  And  Bernard  de  Treves,  even  after  he  had 
attained  a  knowledge  of  all  the  requisites,  was  he  not  delayed 
full  three  years?  What  you  consider  accidents,  my  son,  are 
the  machinations  of  our  invisible  enemies.  The  treasures  and 
golden  secrets  of  nature  are  surrounded  by  spirits  hostile  to 
man.  The  air  about  us  teems  with  them.  They  lurk  in  the 
••Hre  of  the  furnace,  in  the  bottom  of  the  crucible,  and  the 
alembic,  and  are  ever  on  the  alert  to  take  advantage  of  those 
moments  when  our  minds  are  wandering  from  intense  medita- 
on  the  great  truth  that  we  are  seeking.  We  must  only 
strive  the  more  to  purify  ourselves  from  those  gross  and  earthly 
feelings  which  becloud  the  soul,  and  prevent  her  from  piercing 
into  nature's  arcana." 

"  Alas  !  "  thought  Antonio,  "  if  to  be  purified  from  all  earthly 
feeling  requires  that  I  should  cease  to  love  Inez,  I  fear  I  shall 
never  discover  the  philosopher's  stone !  " 

In  this  way,  matters  went  on  for  some  time,  at  the  alche- 
mist's. Day  after  day  was  sending  the  student's  gold  in  vapor 
up  the  chimney ;  every  blast  of  the  furnace  made  him  a  ducat 


\ 

\ 

THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  117 

the  poorer,  without  apparently  helping  him  a  jot  nearer  to  the 
golden  secret.  Still  the  young  man  stood  by,  and  saw  piece 
after  piece  disappearing  without  a  murmur :  he  had  daily  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  Inez,  and  felt  as  if  her  favor  would  be 
better  than  silver  or  gold,  and  that  every  smile  was  worth  a 
ducat. 

Sometimes,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  when  the  toils  of  the 
laboratory  happened  to  be  suspended,  he  would  walk  with 
the  alchemist  in  what  had  once  been  a  garden  belonging  to  the 
mansion.  There  were  still  the  remains  of  terraces  and  balus- 
trades, and  here  and  there  a  marble  urn,  or  mutilated  statue 
overturned,  and  buried  among  weeds  and  flowers  run  wild.  It 
was  the  favorite  resort  of  the  alchemist  in  his  hours  of  relaxa- 
tion, where  he  would  give  full  scope  to  his  visionary  flights. 
His  mind  was  tinctured  with  the  Rosicrucian  doctrines.  He 
believed  in  elementary  beings ;  some  favorable,  others  adverse 
to  his  pursuits ;  and,  in  the  exaltation  of  his  fancy,  had  often 
imagined  that  he  held  communion  with  them  in  his  solitary 
tvalks,  about  the  whispering  groves  and  echoing  walls  of  this 
old  garden. 

When  accompanied  by  Antonio,  he  would  prolong  these 
evening  recreations.  Indeed,  he  sometimes  did  it  out  of  con- 
sideration for  his  disciple,  for  he  feared  lest  his  too  close  ap- 
plication, and  his  incessant  seclusion  in  the  tower,  should  be 
injurious  to  his  health.  He  was  delighted  and  surprised  by  this 
extraordinary  zeal  and  perseverance  in  so  }*oung  a  tyro,  and 
looked  upon  him  as  destined  to  be  one  of  the  great  luminaries 
of  the  art.  Lest  the  student  should  repine  at  the  time  lost  in 
these  relaxations,  the  good  alchemist  would  fill  them  up  with 
wholesome  knowledge,  in  matters  connected  with  their  pursuits  ; 
and  would  walk  up  and  down  the  alleys  with  his  disciple,  im- 
parting oral  instruction,  like  an  ancient  philosopher.  In  all  his 
visionary  schemes,  there  breathed  a  spirit  of  lofty,  though  chi- 
merical philanthropy,  that  won  the  admiration  of  the  scholar. 
Nothing  sordid  nor  sensual,  nothing  petty  nor  selfish,  seemed 
to  enter  into  his  views,  in  respect  to  the  grand  discoveries  he  ; 
was  anticipating.  On  the  contrary,  his  imagination  kindled 
with  conceptions  of  widely^ispensated  happiness."  He  looked 
forward  to  the  time  when  he  should  be  able  to  go  about  the 

Dearth,  relieving  the  indigent,  comforting  the  distressed ;  and, 
by  his  unlimited  means,  devising  and  executing  plans  for  the 
complete  extirpation  of  poverty,  and  all  its  attendant  sufferings 
and  crimes.  Never  were  grander  schemes  for  general  good,  for 
the^distribution  of  boundless  wealth  and  universal  competence, 


118  BRACEBBIbGE    HALL. 

devised  than  by  this  poor,  indigent  alchemist  in  his  ruined 
tower. 

Antonio  would  attend  these  peripatetic  lectures  with  all  the 
ardor  of  a  devotee ;  but  there  was  another  circumstance  which 
may  have  given  a  secret  charm  to  them.  The  garden  was  the 
resort  also  of  Inez,  where  she  took  her  walks  of  recreation ; 
the  only  exercise  her  secluded  life  permitted.  As  Antonio 
was  duteously  pacing  by  the  side  of  his  instructor,  he  would 
often  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  daughter,  walking  pensively  about 
the  alleys  in  the  soft  twilight.  Sometimes  they  would  meet  her 
unexpectedly,  and  the  heart  of  the  student  would  throb  with 
agitation.  A  blush,  too,  would  crimson  the  cheek  of  Inez,  but 
still  she  passed  on  and  never  joined  them. 

He  had  remained  one  evening  until  rather  a  late  hour  with 
the  alchemist  in  this  favorite  resort.  It  was  a  delightful  night 
after  a  sultry  day,  and  the  balmy  air  of  the  garden  was  pecul- 
iarly reviving.  The  old  man  was  seated  on  a  fragment  of  a 
pedestal,  looking  like  a  part  of  the  ruin  on  which  he  sat.  He 
was  edifying  his  pupil  by  long  lessons  of  wisdom  from  the 
stars,  as  they  shone  out  with  brilliant  lustre  in  the  dark-blue 
vault  of  a  southern  sky  ;  for  lie  was  deeply  versed  in  Behmen, 
and  other  of  the  Rosicrucians,  and  talked  much  of  the  signa- 
ture of  earthly  things  and  passing  events,  which  may  be  dis- 
cerned in  the  heavens  ;  of  the  power  of  the  stars  over  corporeal 
beings,  and  their  influence  on  the  fortunes  of  the  sons  of  men. 

By  degrees  the  moon  rose  and  shed  her  gleaming  light  among 
the  groves.  Antonio  apparently  listened  with  fixed  attention 
to  the  sage,  but  his  ear  was  drinking  in  the  melody  of  Inez's 
voice,  who  was  singing  to  her  lute  in  one  of  the  moonlight 
glades  of  the  garden.  The  old  man,  having  exhausted  his 
theme,  sat  gazing  in  silent  reverie  at  the  heavens.  Antonio 
could  not  resist  an  inclination  to  steal  a  look  at  this  coy  beauty, 
who  was  thus  playing  the  part  of  the  nightingale,  so  sequestered 
and  musical.  Leaving  the  alchemist  in  his  celestial  reverie,  he 
stole  gently  along  one  of  the  alle3's.  The  music  had  ceased, 
and  he  thought  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices.  He  came  to  an 
angle  of  a  copse  that  had  screened  a  kind  of  green  recess,  or- 
namented by  a  marble  fountain.  The  moon  shone  full  upon 
the  place,  and  by  its  light  he  beheld  his  unknown,  serenading 
rival  at  the  feet  of  Inez.  He  was  detaining  her  by  the  hand, 
which  he  covered  with  kisses  ;  but  at  sight  of  Antonio  he  started 
up  and  half  drew  his  sword,  while  Inez,  disengaged,  fled  back 
to  the  house. 

All  the  jealous  doubts  and  fears  of  Antonio  were  now  con- 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  119 

firmed.  He  did  not  remain  to  encounter  the  resentment  of  his 
happy  rival  at  being  thus  interrupted,  but  turned  from  the  place 
in  sudden  wretchedness  of  heart.  That  Inez  should  love  an- 
other, would  have  been  misery  enough  ;  but  that  she  should  be 
capable  of  a  dishonorable  amour,  shocked  him  to  the  soul.  The 
idea  of  deception  in  so  young  and  apparently  artless  a  being, 
brought  with  it  that  sudden  distrust  in  human  nature,  so  sick- 
ening to  a  youthful  and  ingenuous  mind  ;  but  when  he  thought 
of  the  kind,  simple  parent  she  was  deceiving,  whose  affections 
all  centred  in  her,  he  felt  for  a  moment  a  sentiment  of  indigna- 
tion, and  almost  of  aversion. 

He  found  the  alchemist  still  seated  in  his  visionary  contem- 
plation of  the  moon.  "Come  hither,  my  son,"  said  he,  with 
his  usual  enthusiasm,  "  come,  read  with  me  in  this  vast  volume 
of  wisdom,  thus  nightly  unfolded  for  our  perusal.  Wisely  did 
the  Chaldean  sages  affirm,  that  the  heaven  is  as  a  mystic  page, 
uttering  speech  to  those  who  can  rightly  understand  ;  warning 
them  of  good  and  evil,  and  instructing  them  in  the  secret  de- 
crees of  fate." 

The  student's  heart  ached  for  his  venerable  master ;  and,  for 
a  moment,  he  felt  the  futility  of  his  occult  wisdom.  "  Alas  ! 
poor  old  man!"  thought  he,  "of  what  avails  all  thy  study? 
Little  dost  thou  dream,  while  busied  in  airy  speculations  among 
the  stars,  what  a  treason  against  thy  happiness  is  going  on 
under  thine  eyes  ;  as  it  were,  in  thy  very  bosom  !  —  Oh  Inez  ! 
Inez  !  where  shall  we  look  for  truth  and  innocence,  where  shall 
we  repose  confidence  in  woman,  if  even  you  can  deceive?  " 

It  was  a  trite  apostrophe,  such  as  every  lover  makes  when 
he  finds  his  mistress  not  quite  such  a  goddess  as  he  had 
painted  her.  With  the  student,  however,  it  sprang  from  hon- 
est anguish  of  heart.  He  returned  to  his  lodgings,  in  pitiable 
confusion  of  mind.  He  now  deplored  the  infatuation  which  had 
led  him  on  until  his  feelings  were  so  thoroughly  engaged.  He 
resolved  to  abandon  his  pursuits  at  the  tower,  and  trust  to 
absence  to  dispel  the  fascination  by  which  he  had  been  spell- 
bound. He  no  longer  thirsted  after  the  discovery  of  the  grand 
elixir :  the  dream  of  alchemy  was  over ;  for,  without  Inez, 
what  was  the  value  of  the  philosopher's  stone? 

He  rose,  after  a  sleepless  night,  with  the  determination  of 
taking  his  leave  of  the  alchemist,  and  tearing  himself  from 
Granada.  For  several  days  did  he  rise  with  the  same  resolu- 
tion, and  every  night  saw  him  come  back  to  his  pillow,  to 
repine  at  his  want  of  resolution,  and  to  make  fresh  determina- 
tions for  the  morrow.  In  the  mean  while,  he  saw  less  of  Inez 


120  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

than  ever.  She  no  longer  walked  in  the  garden,  but  remained 
almost  entirely  in  her  apartment.  When  she  met  him,  she 
blushed  more  than  usual ;  and  once  hesitated,  as  if  she  would 
have  spoken  ;  but,  after  a  temporary  embarrassment,  and  still 
deeper  blushes,  she  made  some  casual  observation,  and  retired. 
Antonio  read,  in  this  confusion,  a  consciousness  of  fault,  and 
of  that  fault's  being  discovered.  "What  could  she  have 
wished  to  communicate  ?  Perhaps  to  account  for  the  scene  in 
the  garden ;  —  but  how  can  she  account  for  it,  or  why  should 
she  account  for  it  to  me  ?  What  am  I  to  her  ?  —  or  rather, 
what  is  she  to  me?"  exclaimed  he,  impatiently,  with  a  new 
resolution  to  break  through  these  entanglements  of  the  heart, 
and  fly  from  this  enchanted  spot  forever. 

He  was  returning  that  very  night  to  his  lodgings,  full  of  this 
excellent  determination,  when,  in  a  shadowy  part  of  the  road, 
he  passed  a  person  whom  he  recognized,  by  his  height  and 
form,  for  his  rival :  he  was  going  in  the  direction  of  the  tower. 
If  any  lingering  doubts  remained,  here  was  an  opportunity  of 
settling  them  completely.  He  determined  to  follow  this  un- 
known cavalier,  and,  under  favor  of  the  darkness,  observe  his 
movements.  If  he  obtained  access  to  the  tower,  or  in  any  way 
a  favorable  reception,  Antonio  felt  as  if  it  would  be  a  relief  to 
his  mind,  and  would  enable  him  to  fix  his  wavering  resolution. 

The  unknown,  as  he  came  near  the  tower,  was  more  cautious 
and  stealthy  in  his  approaches.  He  was  joined  under  a  clump 
of  trees  by  another  person,  and  they  had  much  whispering 
together.  A  light  was  burning  in  the  chamber  of  Inez ;  the 
curtain  was  down,  but  the  casement  was  left  open,  as  the 
night  was  warm.  After  some  time,  the  light  was  extinguished. 
A  considerable  interval  elapsed.  The  cavalier  and  his  com- 
panion remained  under  covert  of  the  trees,  as  if  keeping 
watch.  At  length  they  approached  the  tower,  with  silent  and 
cautious  steps.  The  cavalier  received  a  dark-lantern  from  his 
companion,  and  threw  off  his  cloak.  The  other  then  softly 
brought  something  from  the  clump  of  trees,  which  Antonio 
perceived  to  be  a  light  ladder :  he  placed  it  against  the  wall, 
and  the  serenader  gently  ascended.  A  sickening  sensation 
came  over  Antonio.  Here  was  indeed  a  confirmation  of  every 
fear.  He  was  about  to  leave  the  place,  never  to  return,  when 
he  heard  a  stifled  shriek  from  Inez's  chamber. 

In  an  instant,  the  fellow  that  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder 
lay  prostrate  on  the  ground.  Antonio  wrested  a  stiletto  from 
his  nerveless  hand,  and  hurried  up  the  ladder.  He  sprang  in 
at  the  window,  and  found  Inez  struggling  in  the  grasp  of  hii 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  121 

fancied  rival ;  the  latter,  disturbed  from  his  prey,  caught  up 
his  lantern,  turned  its  light  full  upon  Antonio,  and,  drawing 
his  sword,  made  a  furious  assault ;  luckily  the  student  saw  the 
light  gleam  along  the  blade,  and  parried  the  thrust  with  the 
stiletto.  A  fierce,  but  unequal  combat  ensued.  Antonio  fought 
exposed  to  the  full  glare  of  the  light,  while  his  antagonist  was 
in  shadow :  his  stiletto,  too,  was  but  a  poor  defence  against 
a  rapier.  He  saw  that  nothing  would  save  him  but  closing 
with  his  adversary,  and  getting  within  his  weapon :  he  rushed 
furiously  upon  him,  and  gave  him  a  severe  blow  with  the 
stiletto ;  but  received  a  wound  in  return  from  the  shortened 
sword.  At  the  same  moment,  a  blow  was  inflicted  from  behind, 
by  the  confederate,  who  had  ascended  the  ladder ;  it  felled  him 
to  the  floor,  and  his  antagonists  made  their  escape. 

By  this  time,  the  cries  of  Inez  had  brought  her  father  and 
the  domestic  into  the  room.  Antonio  was  found  weltering  in 
his  blood,  and  senseless.  He  was  conveyed  to  the  chamber  of 
the  alchemist,  who  now  repaid  in  kind  the  attentions  which 
the  student  had  once  bestowed  upon  him.  Among  his  varied 
knowledge  he  possessed  some  skill  in  surgery,  which  at  this 
moment  was  of  more  value  than  even  his  chemical  lore.  He 
stanched  and  dressed  the  wounds  of  his  disciple,  which  on  ex- 
amination proved  less  desperate  than  he  had  at  first  appre- 
hended. For  a  few  days,  however,  his  case  was  anxious,  and 
attended  with  danger.  The  old  man  watched  over  him  with 
the  affection  of  a  parent.  He  felt  a  double  debt  of  gratitude 
towards  him,  on  account  of  his  daughter  and  himself ;  he  loved 
him  too  as  a  faithful  and  zealous  disciple  ;  and  he  dreaded  lest 
the  world  should  be  deprived  of  the  promising  talents  of  so 
aspiring  an  alchemist. 

An  excellent  constitution  soon  medicined  his  wounds ;  and 
there  was  a  balsam  in  the  looks  and  words  of  Inez,  that  had  a 
healing  effect  on  the  still  severer  wounds  which  he  carried  in 
his  heart.  She  displayed  the  strongest  interest  in  his  safety ; 
she  called  him  her  deliverer,  her  preserver.  It  seemed  as  if 
her  grateful  disposition  sought,  in  the  warmth  of  its  acknowl- 
edgments, to  repay  him  for  past  coldness.  But  what  most 
contributed  to  Antonio's  recovery,  was  her  explanation  con- 
cerning his  supposed  rival.  It  was  some  time  since  he  had  first 
beheld  her  at  church,  and  he  had  ever  since  persecuted  her 
with  his  attentions.  He  had  beset  her  in  her  walks,  until  she 
had  been  obliged  to  confine  herself  to  the  house,  except  when 
accompanied  by  her  father.  He  had  besieged  her  with  letters, 
serenades,  and  every  art  by  which  he  could  urge  a  vehement. 


122  BEACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

but  clandestine  and  dishonorable  suit.  The  scene  in  the  garden 
was  as  much  of  a  surprise  to  her  as  to  Antonio.  Her  perse- 
cutor had  been  attracted  by  her  voice,  and  had  found  his  way 
over  a  ruined  part  of  the  wall.  He  had  come  upon  her  una- 
wares ;  was  detaining  her  by  force,  and  pleading  his  insulting 
passion,  when  the  appearance  of  the  student  interrupted  him, 
and  enabled  her  to  make  her  escape.  She  had  forborne  to 
mention  to  her  father  the  persecution  which  she  suffered ;  she 
wished  to  spare  him  unavailing  anxiety  and  distress,  and  had 
determined  to  confine  herself  more  rigorously  to  the  house ; 
though  it  appeared  that  even  here  she  had  not  been  safe  from 
his  daring  enterprise. 

Antonio  inquired  whether  she  knew  the  name  of  this  impet- 
uous admirer?  She  replied  that  he  had  made  his  advances 
under  a  fictitious  name ;  but  that  she  had  heard  him  once 
called  by  the  name  of  Don  Ambrosio  de  Loxa. 

Antonio  knew  him,  by  report,  for  one  of  the  most  determined 
and  dangerous  libertines  in  all  Granada.  Artful,  accomplished, 
and,  if  he  chose  to  be  so,  insinuating ;  but  daring  and  headlong 
in  the  pursuit  of  his  pleasures ;  violent  and  implacable  in  his 
resentments.  He  rejoiced  to  find  that  Inez  had  been  proof 
against  his  seductions,  and  had  been  inspired  with  aversion  by 
his  splendid  profligacy ;  but  he  trembled  to  think  of  the  dangers 
she  had  run,  and  he  felt  solicitude  about  the  dangers  that  must 
yet  environ  her. 

At  present,  however,  it  was  probable  the  enemy  had  a  tem- 
porary quietus.  The  traces  of  blood  had  been  found  for  some 
distance  from  the  ladder,  until  they  were  lost  among  thickets ; 
and  as  nothing  had  been  heard  or  seen  of  him  since,  it  was 
concluded  that  he  had  been  seriously  wounded. 

As  the  student  recovered  from  his  wounds,  he  was  enabled 
to  join  Inez  and  her  father  in  their  domestic  intercourse.  The 
chamber  in  which  they  usually  met  had  probably  been  a  saloon 
of  state  in  former  times.  The  floor  was  of  marble ;  the  walls 
were  partially  covered  with  remains  of  tapestry ;  the  chairs,  richly 
carved  and  gilt,  were  crazed  with  age,  and  covered  with  tar- 
nished and  tattered  brocade.  Against  the  wall  hung  a  long 
rusty  rapier,  the  only  relic  that  the  old  man  retained  of  the 
chivalry  of  his  ancestors.  There  might  have  been  something 
to  provoke  a  smile,  in  the  contrast  between  the  mansion  and 
its  inhabitants ;  between  present  poverty  and  the  traces  of 
departed  grandeur ;  but  the  fancy  of  the  student  had  thrown 
so  much  romance  about  the  edifice  and  its  inmates,  that  every 
thing  was  clothed  with  charms.  The  philosopher,  with  his 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  123 

broken-down  pride,  and  his  strange  pursuits,  seemed  to  com- 
port with  the  melancholy  ruin  he  inhabited ;  and  there  was  a 
native  elegance  of  spirit  about  the  daughter,  that  showed  she 
would  have  graced  the  mansion  in  its  happier  days. 

What  delicious  moments  were  these  to  the  student !  Inez 
was  no  longer  coy  and  reserved.  She  was  naturally  artless 
and  confiding  ;  though  the  kind  of  persecution  she  had  experi- 
enced from  one  admirer  had  rendered  her,  for  a  time,  suspi- 
cious and  circumspect  toward  the  other.  She  now  felt  an  en- 
tire confidence  in  the  sincerity  and  worth  of  Antonio,  mingled 
with  an  overflowing  gratitude.  When  her  eyes  met  his, -they 
beamed  with  sympathy  and  kindness ;  and  Antonio,  no  longer 
haunted  by  the  idea  of  a  favored  rival,  once  more  aspired  to 
success. 

At  these  domestic  meetings,  however,  he  had  little  opportu- 
nity of  paying  his  court,  except  by  looks.  The  alchemist,  sup- 
posing him,  like  himself,  absorbed  in  the  study  of  alchemy, 
endeavored  to  cheer  the  tediousness  of  his  recovery  by  long 
conversations  on  the  art.  He  even  brought  several  of  his  half- 
burnt  volumes,  which  the  student  had  once  rescued  from  the 
flames,  and  rewarded  him  for  their  preservation,  by  reading 
copious  passages.  He  would  entertain  him  with  the  great  and 
good  acts  of  Flamel,  which  he  effected  through  means  of  the 
philosopher's  stone,  relieving  widows  and  orphans,  founding 
hospitals,  building  churches,  and  what  not ;  or  with  the  inter- 
rogatories of  King  Kalid,  and  the  answers  of  Morienus,  the 
Roman  hermit  of  Hierusalem ;  or  the  profound  questions  which 
Elardus,  a  necromancer  of  the  province  of  Catalonia,  put  to 
the  devil,  touching  the  secrets  of  alchemy,  and  the  devil's 
replies. 

All  these  were  couched  in  occult  language,  almost  unintelli- 
gible to  the  unpractised  ear  of  the  disciple.  Indeed,  the  old 
man  delighted  in  the  mystic  phrases  and  symbolical  jargon  in 
which  the  writers  that  have  treated  of  alchemy  have  wrapped 
their  communications ;  rendering  them  incomprehensible  ex- 
cept to  the  initiated.  With  what  rapture  would  he  elevate  his 
voice  at  a  triumphant  passage,  announcing  the  grand  discovery  ! 
"Thou  shalt  see,"  would  he  exclaim,  in  the  words  of  Henry 
Kuhnrade,1  "•  the  stone  of  the  philosophers  (our  king)  go  forth 
of  the  bed-chamber  of  his  glassy  sepulchre  into  the  theatre  of 
this  world ;  that  is  to  say,  regenerated  and  made  perfect,  a 
shining  carbuncle,  a  most  temperate  splendor,  whose  most 

1  Amphitheatre  of  the  Eternal  Wisdom. 


124  BEACEBEIDGE   HALL. 

subtle  and  dephurated  parts  are  inseparable,  united  into  one 
with  a  concordial  mixture,  exceeding  equal,  transparent  as 
crystal,  shining  red  like  a  ruby,  permanently  coloring  or  ring- 
ing, fixt  in  all  temptations  or  trials;  yea,  in  the  examination 
of  the  burning  sulphur  itself,  and  the  devouring  waters,  and  in 
the  most  vehement  persecution  of  the  fire,  always  incombusti- 
ble and  permanent  as  a  salamander ! ' ' 

The  student  had  a  high  veneration  for  the  fathers  of  alchemy, 
and  a  profound  respect  for  his  instructor ;  but  what  was  Henry 
Kuhnrade,  Geber,  Lully,  or  even  Albertus  Magnus  himself, 
compared  to  the  countenance  of  Inez,  which  presented  such  a 
page  of  beauty  to  his  perusal?  While,  therefore,  the  good 
alchemist  was  doling  out  knowledge  by  the  hour,  his  disciple 
would  forget  books,  alchemy,  every  thing  but  the  lovel}"  object 
before  him.  Inez,  too,  unpractised  in  the  science  of  the  heart, 
was  gradually  becoming  fascinated  by  the  silent  attentions  of 
her  lover.  Day  by  day,  she  seemed  more  and  more  perplexed 
by  the  kindling  and  strangely  pleasing  emotions  of  her  bosom. 
Her  eye  was  often  cast  down  in  thought.  Blushes  stole  to  her 
cheek  without  any  apparent  cause,  and  light,  half -suppressed 
sighs  would  follow  these  short  fits  of  musing.  Her  little  bal- 
lads, though  the  same  that  she  had  always  sung,  yet  breathed 
a  more  tender  spirit.  Either  the  tones  of  her  voice  were  more 
soft  and  touching,  or  some  passages  were  delivered  with  a  feel- 
ing she  had  never  before  given  them.  Antonio,  beside  his  love 
for  the  abstruse  sciences,  had  a  pretty  turn  for  music ;  and 
never  did  philosopher  touch  the  guitar  more  tastefullj*.  As,  by 
degrees,  he  conquered  the  mutual  embarrassment  that  kept 
them  asunder,  he  ventured  to  accompany  Inez  in  some  of  her 
songs.  He  had  a  voice  full  of  fire  and  tenderness  :  as  he  sang, 
one  would  have  thought,  from  the  kindling  blushes  of  his  com- 
panion, that  he  had  been  pleading  his  own  passion  in  her  ear. 
.Let  those  who  would  keep  two  youthful  hearts  asunder,  beware 
of  music.  Oh  !  this  leaning  over  chairs,  and  conning  the  same 
music-book,  and  intwining  of  voices,  and  melting  away  in 
harmonies  !  —  the  German  waltz  is  nothing  to  it. 

The  worthy  alchemist  saw  nothing  of  all  this.  His  mind 
could  admit  of  no  idea  that  was  not  connected  with  the  dis- 
covery of  the  grand  arcanum,  and  he  supposed  his  youthful 
coadjutor  equally  devoted.  He  was  a  mere  child  as  to  human 
nature  ;  and,  as  to  the  passion  of  love,  whatever  he  might  once 
have  felt  of  it,  he  had  long  since  forgotten  that  there  was  such 
an  idle  passion  in  existence.  But,  while  he  dreamed,  the  silent 
amour  went  on.  The  very  quiet  and  seclusion  of  the  place 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  125 

were  favorable  to  the  growth  of  romantic  passion.  The  open- 
ing bud  of  love  was  able  to  put  forth  leaf  by  leaf,  without  an 
adverse  wind  to  check  its  growth.  There  was  neither  officious 
friendship  to  chill  by  its  advice,  nor  insidious  envy  to  wither 
by  its  sneers,  nor  an  observing  world  to  look  on  and  stare  it 
out  of  countenance.  There  was  neither  declaration,  nor  vow, 
nor  any  other  form  of  Cupid's  canting  school.  Their  hearts 
mingled  together,  and  understood  each  other  without  the  aid 
of  language.  They  lapsed  into  the  full  current  of  affection, 
unconscious  of  its  depth,  and  thoughtless  of  the  rocks  that 
might  lurk  beneath  its  surface.  Happy  lovers !  who  wanted 
nothing  to  make  their  felicity  complete,  but  the  discovery  of 
the  philosopher's  stone ! 

At  length,  Antonio's  health  was  sufficiently  restored  to  ena- 
ble him  to  return  to  his  lodgings  in  Granada.  He  felt  uneasy, 
however,  at  leaving  the  tower,  while  lurking  danger  might 
surround  its  almost  defenceless  inmates.  He  dreaded  lest  Don 
Ambrosio,  recovered  from  his  wounds,  might  plot  some  new 
attempt,  by  secret  art,  or  open  violence.  From  all  that  he  had 
heard,  he  knew  him  to  be  too  implacable  to  suffer  his  defeat  to 
pass  unavenged,  and  too  rash  and  fearless,  when  his  arts  were 
unavailing,  to  stop  at  any  daring  deed  in  the  accomplishment 
of  his  purposes.  He  urged  his  apprehensions  to  the  alchemist 
and  his  daughter,  and  proposed  that  they  should  abandon  the 
dar.o-orous  vicinity  of  Granada. 

"  I  have  relations,"  said  he,  "  in  Valencia,  poor  indeed,  but 
worthy  and  affectionate.  Among  them  you  will  find  friendship 
and  quiet,  and  we  may  there  pursue  our  labors  unmolested." 
He  went  on  to  paint  the  beauties  and  delights  of  Valencia, 
with  all  the  fondness  of  a  native,  and  all  the  eloquence  with 
which  a  lover  paints  the  fields  and  groves  which  he  is  picturing 
as  the  future  scenes  of  his  happiness.  His  eloquence,  backed 
by  the  apprehensions  of  Inez,  was  successful  with  the  alchemist, 
who,  indeed,  had  led  too  unsettled  a  life  to  be  particular  about 
the  place  of  his  residence ;  and  it  was  determined,  that,  as 
soon  as  Antonio's  health  was  perfectly  restored,  they  should 
abandon  the  tower,  and  seek  the  delicious  neighborhood  of 
Valencia.1 

1  Here  are  the  strongest  silks,  the  sweetest  wines,  the  excellent'st  almonds,  the  best 
oyls,  and  beautifull'st  females  of  all  Spain.  The  very  bruit  animals  make  themselves 
beds  of  rosemary,  and  other  fragrant  flowers  hereabouts;  and  when  one  is  at  sea,  if  the 
winde  blow  from  the  shore,  he  may  smell  this  soyl  before  he  comes  in  sight  of  it,  many 
leagues  off,  by  the  strong  odoriferous  scent  it  casts.  As  it  is  the  most  pleasant,  so  it  is 
also  the  temperat'st  clime  of  all  Spain,  and  they  commonly  call  it  the  second  Italy; 
which  made  the  Moors,  whereof  many  thousands  were  disterr'd,  and  banish'd  hence  to 
Barbary,  to  think  that  Paradise  was  in  that  part  of  the  heavens  wlrlch  hung  over  this 
citie.—  HOWELL'B  Ltttert. 


126  BSACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

To  recruit  his  strength,  the  student  suspended  his  toils  in  th« 
laboratory,  and  spent  the  few  remaining  days,  before  departure, 
in  taking  a  farewell  look  at  the  enchanting  environs  of  Granada. 
He  felt  returning  health  and  vigor,  as  he  inhaled  the  pure  tem- 
perate breezes  that  play  about  its  hills ;  and  the  happy  state 
of  his  mind  contributed  to  his  rapid  recovery.  Inez  was  often 
the  companion  of  his  walks.  Her  descent,  by  the  mother's  side, 
from  one  of  the  ancient  Moorish  families,  gave  her  an  interest 
in  this  once  favorite  seat  of  Arabian  power.  She  gazed  with 
enthusiasm  upon  its  magnificent  monuments,  and  her  memory 
was  filled  with  the  traditional  tales  and  ballads  of  Moorish 
chivalry.  Indeed,  the  solitary  life  she  had  led,  and  the  vision- 
ary turn  of  her  father's  mind,  had  produced  an  effect  upon  her 
character,  and  given  it  a  tinge  of  what,  in  modern  days,  would 
be  termed  romance.  All  this  was  called  into  full  force  by  this 
new  passage  ;  for,  when  a  woman  first  begins  to  love,  life  is  all 
romance  to  her. 

In  one  of  their  evening  strolls,  they  had  ascended  to  the 
mountain  of  the  Sun,  where  is  situated  the  Generaliffe,  the 
palace  of  pleasure,  in  the  days  of  Moorish  dominion,  but  now  a 
gloomy  convent  of  Capuchins.  They  had  wandered  about  its 
garden,  among  groves  of  orange,  citron,  and  cj-press,  where 
the  waters,  leaping  in  torrents,  or  gushing  in  fountains,  or 
tossed  aloft  in  sparkling  jets,  fill  the  air  with  music  and  fresh- 
ness. There  is  a  melancholy  mingled  with  all  the  beauties  of 
this  garden,  that  gradually  stole  over  the  feelings  of  the  lovers. 
The  place  is  full  of  the  sad  story  of  past  times.  It  was  the 
favorite  abode  of  the  lovely  queen  of  Granada,  where  she  was 
surrounded  by  the  delights  of  a  gay  and  voluptuous  court.  It 
was  here,  too,  amidst  her  own  bowers  of  roses,  that  her  slan- 
derers laid  the  base  story  of  her  dishonor,  and  struck  a  fatal 
blow  to  the  line  of  the  gallant  Abencerrages. 

The  whole  garden  has  a  look  of  ruin  and  neglect.  Many  of 
the  fountains  are  dry  and  broken ;  the  streams  have  wandered 
from  their  marble  channels,  and  are  choked  by  weeds  and  yel- 
low leaves.  The  reed  whistles  to  the  wind,  where  it  had  once 
sported  among  roses,  and  shaken  perfume  from  the  orange- 
blossom.  The  convent-bell  flings  its  sullen  sound,  or  the 
drowsy  vesper-hymn  floats  along  these  solitudes,  which  once 
resounded  with  the  song,  and  the  dance,  and  the  lover's  sere- 
nade. Well  may  the  Moors  lament  over  the  loss  of  this  earthly 
paradise ;  well  may  they  remember  it  in  their  prayers,  and 
beseech  Heaven  to  restore  it  to  the  faithful ;  well  may  their 
ambassadors  smite  their  breasts  when  they  behold  these  mom/ 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  12? 

ments  of  their  race,  and  sit  down  and  weep  among  the  fading 
glories  of  Granada ! 

It  is  impossible  to  wander  about  these  scenes  of  departed  love 
and  gayety,  and  not  feel  the  tenderness  of  the  heart  awakened. 
It  was  then  that  Antonio  first  ventured  to  breathe  his  passion, 
and  to  express  by  words  what  his  eyes  had  long  since  so  elo- 
quently revealed.  He  made  his  avowal  with  fervor,  but  with 
frankness.  He  had  no  gay  prospects  to  hold  out :  he  was  a 
poor  scholar,  dependent  on  his  "good  spirits  to  feed  and  clothe 
him."  But  a  woman  in  love  is  no  interested  calculator.  Inez 
listened  to  him  with  downcast  eyes,  but  in  them  was  a  humid 
gleam  that  showed  her  heart  was  with  him.  She  had  no  pru- 
dery in  her  nature ;  and  she  had  not  been  sufficiently  in  society 
to  acquire  it.  She  loved  him  with  all  the  absence  of  world- 
liness  of  a  genuine  woman ;  and,  amidst  timid  smiles  and 
blushes,  he  drew  from  her  a  modest  acknowledgment  of  her 
affection. 

They  wandered  about  the  garden,  with  that  sweet  intoxica- 
tion of  the  soul  which  none  but  happy  lovers  know.  The  world 
about  them  was  all  fah-y  land ;  and,  indeed,  it  spread  forth  one 
of  its  fairest  scenes  before  their  63-68,  as  if  to  fulfil  their  dream 
of  earthly  happiness.  They  looked  out  from  between  groves  of 
orange,  upon  the  towers  of  Granada  below  them ;  the  magnifi- 
cent plain  of  the  Vega  beyond,  streaked  with  evening  sunshine, 
and  the  distant  hills  tinted  with  rosy  and  purple  hues :  it 
seemed  an  emblem  of  the  happy  future,  that  love  and  hope 
were  decking  out  for  them. 

As  if  to  make  the  scene  complete,  a  group  of  Andalusians 
struck  up  a  dance,  in  one  of  the  vistas  of  the  garden,  to  the 
guitars  of  the  two  wandering  musicians.  The  Spanish  music  is 
wild  and  plaintive,  yet  the  people  dance  to  it  with  spirit  and 
enthusiasm.  The  picturesque  figures  of  the  dancers  ;  the  girls 
with  their  hair  in  silken  nets  that  hung  in  knots  and  tassels 
down  their  backs,  their  mantillas  floating  round  their  graceful 
forms,  their  slender  feet  peeping  from  under  their  basquinas, 
their  arms  tossed  up  in  the  air  to  play  the  castanets,  had  a 
beautiful  effect  on  this  airy  height,  with  the  rich  evening  land- 
scape spreading  out  below  them. 

When  the  dance  was  ended,  two  of  the  parties  approached 
Antonio  and  Inez  ;  one  of  them  began  a  soft  and  tender  Moorish 
ballad,  accompanied  by  the  other  on  the  lute.  It  alluded  to 
the  story  of  the  garden,  the  wrongs  of  the  fair  queen  of  Gra- 
nada, and  the  misfortunes  of  the  Abencerrages.  It  was  one  of 
those  old  ballads  that  abound  in  this  part  of  Spain,  and  live, 


128  BEACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

like  echoes,  about  the  ruins  of  Moorish  greatness.  The  heart 
of  Inez  was  at  that  moment  open  to  every  tender  impression  ;  the 
tears  rose  into  her  eyes,  as  she  listened  to  the  tale.  The  singer 
approached  nearer  to  her  ;  she  was  striking  in  her  appearance  ; 
—  young,  beautiful,  with  a  mixture  of  wildness  and  melancholy 
in  her  fine  black  eyes.  She  fixed  them  mournfully  and  expres- 
sively on  Inez,  and,  suddenly  varying  her  manner,  sang  another 
ballad,  which  treated  of  impending  danger  and  treachery.  All 
this  might  have  passed  for  a  mere  accidental  caprice  of  the 
singer,  had  there  not  been  something  in  her  look,  manner,  and 
gesticulation  that  made  it  pointed  and  startling. 

Inez  was  about  to  ask  the  meaning  of  this  evidently  personal 
application  of  the  song,  when  she  was  interrupted  by  Antonio, 
who  gently  drew  her  from  the  place.  Whilst  she  had  been  lost 
in  attention  to  the  music,  he  had  remarked  a  group  of  men,  in 
the  shadows  of  the  trees,  whispering  together.  They  were 
enveloped  in  the  broad  hats  and  great  cloaks  so  much  worn  by 
the  Spanish,  and,  while  they  were  regarding  himself  and  Inez 
attentively,  seemed  anxious  to  avoid  observation.  Not  know- 
ing what  might  be  their  character  or  intention,  he  hastened  to 
quit  a  place  where  the  gathering  shadows  of  evening  might 
expose  them  to  intrusion  and  insult.  On  their  way  down  the 
hill,  as  they  passed  through  the  wood  of  elms,  mingled  with 
poplars  and  oleanders,  that  skirts  the  road  leading  from  the 
Alhambra,  he  again  saw  these  men  apparently  following  at  a 
distance ;  and  he  afterwards  caught  sight  of  them  among  the 
trees  on  the  banks  of  the  Darro.  He  said  nothing  on  the  sub- 
ject to  Inez,  nor  her  father,  for  he  would  not  awaken  unneces- 
sary alarm  ;  but  he  felt  at  a  loss  how  to  ascertain  or  to  avert  any 
machinations  that  might  be  devising  against  the  helpless  inhab- 
itants of  the  tower. 

He  took  his  leave  of  them  late  at  night,  full  of  this  perplex- 
ity. As  he  left  the  dreary  old  pile,  he  saw  some  one  lurking  in 
the  shadow  of  the  wall,  apparently  watching  his  movements. 
He  hastened  after  the  figure,  but  it  glided  away,  and  disap- 
peared among  some  ruins.  Shortly  after  he  heard  a  low 
whistle,  which  was  answered  from  a  little  distance.  He  had  no 
longer  a  doubt  but  that  some  mischief  was  on  foot,  and  turned 
to  hasten  back  to  the  tower,  and  put  its  inmates  on  their  guard. 
He  had  scarcely  turned,  however,  before  he  found  himself  sud- 
denly seized  from  behind  by  some  one  of  Herculean  strength. 
His  struggles  were  in  vain  ;  he  was  surrounded  by  armed  men. 
One  threw  a  mantle  over  him  that  stifled  his  cries,  and  enveloped 
turn  in  its  folds  ;  and  he  was  hurried  off  with  irresistible  rapidity. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  129 

The  next  day  passed  without  the  appearance  of  Antonio  at 
the  alchemist's.  Another,  and  another  day  succeeded,  and  yet 
he  did  not  come ;  nor  had  any  thing  been  heard  of  him  at  his 
lodgings.  His  absence  caused,  at  first,  surprise  and  conjecture, 
and  at  length  alarm.  Inez  recollected  the  singular  intimations 
of  the  ballad-singer  upon  the  mountain,  which  seemed  to  warn 
her  of  impending  danger,  and  her  mind  was  full  of  vague 
forebodings.  She  sat  listening  to  every  sound  at  the  gate,  or 
footstep  on  the  stairs.  She  would  take  up  her  guitar  and  strike 
a  few  notes,  but  it  would  not  do ;  her  heart  was  sickening  with 
suspense  and  anxiety.  She  had  never  before  felt  what  it  was 
to  be  really  lonely.  She  now  was  conscious  of  the  force  of  that 
attachment  which  had  taken  possession  of  her  breast ;  for  never 
do  we  know  how  much  we  love,  never  do  we  know  how  neces- 
sary the  object  of  our  love  is  to  our  happiness,  until  we  ex- 
perience the  weary  void  of  separation. 

The  philosopher,  too,  felt  the  absence  of  his  disciple  almost 
as  sensibly  as  did  his  daughter.  The  animating  buoyancy  of 
the  youth  had  inspired  him  with  new  ardor,  and  had  given  to 
his  labors  the  charm  of  full  companionship.  However,  he  had 
resources  and  consolations  of  which  his  daughter  was  destitute. 
His  pursuits  were  of  a  nature  to  occupy  every  thought,  and 
keep  the  spirits  in  a  state  of  continual  excitement.  Certain 
indications,  too,  had  lately  manifested  themselves,  of  the  most 
favorable  nature.  Forty  days  and  forty  nights  had  the  process 
gone  on  successfully ;  the  old  man's  hopes  were  constantly 
rising,  and  he  now  considered  the  glorious  moment  once  more 
at  hand,  when  he  should  obtain  not  merely  the  major  lunaria, 
but  likewise  the  tinctura  Solaris,  the  means  of  multiplying 
gold,  and  of  prolonging  existence.  He  remained,  therefore, 
continually  shut  up  in  his  laboratory,  watching  his  furnace ; 
for  a  moment's  inadvertency  might  once  more  defeat  all  his 
expectations. 

He  was  sitting  one  evening  at  one  of  his  solitary  vigils, 
wrapped  up  in  meditation  ;  the  hour  was  late,  and  his  neighbor, 
the  owl,  was  hooting  from  the  battlement  of  the  tower,  when 
he  heard  the  door  open  behind  him.  Supposing  it  to  be  his 
daughter  coming  to  take  her  leave  of  him  for  the  night,  as  was 
her  frequent  practice,  he  called  her  by  name,  but  a  harsh  voice 
met  his  ear  in  reply.  He  was  grasped  by  the  arms,  and,  look- 
ing up,  perceived  three  strange  men  in  the  chamber.  He  at- 
tempted to  shake  them  off,  but  in  vain.  He  called  for  help, 
but  they  scoffed  at  his  cries.  "Peace,  dotard!"  cried  one: 
"  think 'st  thou  the  servants  of  the  most  holy  inquisition 


130  3RACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

are  to  be  daunted  by  thy  clamors?  Comrades,  away  with 
him !  " 

Without  heeding  his  remonstrances  and  entreaties,  they 
seized  upon  his  books  and  papers,  took  some  note  of  the  apart- 
ment, and  the  utensils,  and  then  bore  him  off  a  prisoner. 

Inez,  left  to  herself,  had  passed  a  sad  and  lonely  evening; 
seated  by  a  casement  which  looked  into  the  garden,  she  had 
pensively  watched  star  after  star  sparkle  out  of  the  blue  depths 
of  the  sky,  and  was  indulging  a  crowd  of  anxious  thoughts 
about  her  lover,  until  the  rising  tears  began  to  flow.  She  was 
suddenly  alarmed  by  the  sound  of  voices,  that  seemed  to  come 
from  a  distant  part  of  the  mansion,  There  was,  not  long  after, 
a  noise  of  several  persons  descending  the  stairs.  Surprised  at 
these  unusual  sounds  in  their  lonely  habitation,  she  remained 
for  a  few  moments  in  a  state  of  trembling,  yet  indistinct  appre- 
hension, when  the  servant  rushed  into  the  room,  with  terror  in 
her  countenance,  and  informed  her  that  her  father  was  carried 
off  by  armed  men. 

Inez  did  not  stop  to  hear  further,  but  flew  down-stairs  to 
overtake  them.  She  had  scarcely  passed  the  threshold,  when 
she  found  herself  in  the  grasp  of  strangers.  —  "Away!  — 
away!"  cried  she,  wildly,  "do  not  stop  me  —  let  me  follow 
my  father." 

"  We  come  to  conduct  you  to  him,  senora,"  said  one  of  the 
men,  respectfully. 

"Where  is  he,  then?" 

"He  is  gone  to  Granada,"  replied  the  man  :  "  an  unexpected 
circumstance  requires  his  presence  there  immediately ;  but  he 
is  among  friends." 

"  We  have  no  friends  in  Granada,"  said  Inez,  drawing  back  ; 
but  then  the  idea  of  Antonio  rushed  into  her  mind  ;  something 
relating  to  him  might  have  called  her  father  thither.  "  Is  Senor 
Antonio  de  Castros  with  him?  "  demanded  she,  with  agitation. 

"I  know  not,  senora,"  replied  the  man.  " It  is  very  possible. 
I  only  know  that  your  father  is  among  friends,  and  is  anxious 
for  you  to  follow  him." 

"Let  us  go,  then,"  cried  she,  eagerly.  The  men  led  her  a 
little  distance  to  where  a  mule  was  waiting,  and,  assisting  her 
to  mount,  they  conducted  her  slowly  towards  the  city. 

Granada  was  on  that  evening  a  scene  of  fanciful  revel.  It 
was  one  of  the  festivals  of  the  Maestranza,  an  association  of 
the  nobility  to  keep  up  some  of  the  gallant  customs  of  ancient 
chivalry.  There  had  been  a  representation  of  a  tournament  in 
one  of  the  squares ;  the  streets  would  still  occasionally  resound 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  131 

with  the  beat  of  a  solitary  drum,  or  the  bray  of  a  trumpet  from 
some  straggling  party  of  revellers.  Sometimes  they  were  met 
by  cavaliers,  richly  dressed  in  ancient  costumes,  attended  by 
their  squires ;  and  at  one  time  they  passed  in  sight  of  a  pal- 
ace brilliantly  illuminated,  whence  came  the  mingled  sounds  of 
music  and  the  dance.  Shortly  after,  they  came  to  the  square 
where  the  mock  tournament  had  been  held.  It  was  thronged 
by  the  populace,  recreating  themselves  among  booths  and  stalls 
where  refreshments  were  sold,  and  the  glare  of  torches  showed 
the  temporary  galleries,  and  gay-colored  awnings,  and  armorial 
trophies,  and  other  paraphernalia  of  the  show.  The  conductors 
of  Inez  endeavored  to  keep  out  of  observation,  and  to  traverse 
a  gloomy  part  of  the  square ;  but  they  were  detained  at  one 
place  by  the  pressure  of  a  crowd  surrounding  a  party  of  wander- 
ing musicians,  singing  one  of  those  ballads  of  which  the  Spanish 
populace  are  so  passionately  fond.  The  torches  which  were 
held  by  some  of  the  crowd,  threw  a  strong  mass  of  light  upon 
Inez,  and  the  sight  of  so  beautiful  a  being,  without  mantilla  or 
veil,  looking  so  bewildered,  and  conducted  by  men  who  seemed 
to  take  no  gratification  in  the  surrounding  gayety,  occasioned 
expressions  of  curiosity.  One  of  the  ballad-singers  approached, 
and  striking  her  guitar  with  peculiar  earnestness,  began  to  sing 
a  doleful  air,  full  of  sinister  forebodings.  Inez  started  with 
surprise.  It  was  the  same  ballad-singer  that  had  addressed  her 
in  the  garden  of  the  Geueraliffe.  It  was  the  same  air  that  she 
had  then  sung.  It  spoke  of  impending  dangers  ;  they  seemed, 
indeed,  to  be  thickening  around  her.  She  was  anxious  to  speak 
with  the  girl,  and  to  ascertain  whether  she  really  had  a  knowl- 
edge of  any  definite  evil  that  was  threatening  her ;  but,  as  she 
attempted  to  address  her,  the  mule,  on  which  she  rode,  was 
suddenly  seized,  and  led  forcibly  through  the  throng  by  one 
of  her  conductors,  while  she  saw  another  addressing  menacing 
words  to  the  ballad-singer.  The  latter  raised  her  hand  with  a 
warning  gesture,  as  Inez  lost  sight  of  her. 

While  she  was  yet  lost  in  perplexity,  caused  by  this  singular 
occurrence,  they  stopped  at  the  gate  of  a  large  mansion.  One 
of  her  attendants  knocked,  the  door  was  opened,  and  they  en- 
tered a  paved  court.  "  Where  are  we?"  demanded  Inez,  with 
anxiety.  "  At  the  house  of  a  friend,  senora,"  replied  the  man. 
"  Ascend  this  staircase  with  me,  and  in  a  moment  you  will 
meet  your  father." 

They  ascended  a  staircase,  that  led  to  a  suite  of  splendid 
apartments.  They  passed  through  several,  until  they  came  to 
an  inner  chamber.  The  door  opened  —  some  one  approached ; 


132  BEACEBRILGE  HALL. 

but  what  was  her  terror  at  perceiving,  not  her  father,  but  Don 
Ambrosio ! 

The  men  who  had  seized  upon  the  alchemist,  had,  at  least, 
been  more  honest  in  their  professions.  They  were,  indeed, 
familiars  of  the  inquisition.  He  was  conducted  in  silence  to 
the  gloomy  prison  of  that  horrible  tribunal.  It  was  a  mansion 
whose  very  aspect  withered  joy,  and  almost  shut  out  hope.  It 
was  one  of  those  hideous  abodes  which  the  bad  passions  of  men 
conjure  up  in  this  fair  world,  to  rival  the  fancied  dens  of  de- 
mons and  the  accursed. 

Day  after  day  went  heavily  by,  without  any  thing  to  mark 
the  lapse  of  time,  but  the  decline  and  reappearance  of  the  light 
that  feebly  glimmered  through  the  narrow  window  of  the  dun- 
geon in  which  the  unfortunate  alchemist  was  buried  rather 
than  confined.  His  mind  was  harassed  with  uncertainties  and 
fears  about  his  daughter,  so  helpless  and  inexperienced.  He 
endeavored  to  gather  tidings  of  her  from  the  man  who  brought 
his  daily  portion  of  food.  The  fellow  stared,  as  if  astonished 
at  being  asked  a  question  in  that  mansion  of  silence  and  mys- 
tery, but  departed  without  saying  a  word.  Eveiy  succeeding 
attempt  was  equally  fruitless. 

The  poor  alchemist  was  oppressed  with  many  griefs ;  and  it 
was  not  the  least,  that  he  had  been  again  interrupted  in  his  la- 
bors on  the  very  point  of  success.  Never  was  alchemist  so 
near  attaining  the  golden  secret  —  a  little  longer,  and  all  his 
hopes  would  have  been  realized.  The  thoughts  of  these  disap- 
pointments afflicted  him  more  even  than  the  fear  of  all  that  he 
might  suffer  from  the  merciless  inquisition.  His  waking  thoughts 
would  follow  him  into  his  dreams.  He  would  be  transported  in 
fancy  to  his  laboratory,  busied  again  among  retorts  and  alem- 
bics, and  surrounded  by  Lully,  by  D'Abano,  by  Olybius,  and  the 
other  masters  of  the  sublime  art.  The  moment  of  projection 
would  arrive ;  a  seraphic  form  would  rise  out  of  the  furnace, 
holding  forth  a  vessel  containing  the  precious  elixir ;  but,  be- 
fore he  could  grasp  the  prize,  he  would  awake,  and  find  himself 
in  a  dungeon. 

All  the  devices  of  inquisitorial  ingenuity  were  employed  to 
insnare  the  old  man,  and  to  draw  from  him  evidence  that 
might  be  brought  against  himself,  and  might  corroborate 
certain  secret  information  given  against  him.  He  had  been 
accused  of  practising  necromancy  and  judicial  astrology,  and 
a  cloud  of  evidence  had  been  secretly  brought  forward  to 
substantiate  the  charge.  It  would  be  tedious  to  enumerate 
all  the  circumstances,  apparently  corroborative,  which  had  been 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  133 

industriously  cited  by  the  secret  accuser.  The  silence  which 
prevailed  about  the  tower,  its  desolateness,  the  very  quiet  of 
its  inhabitants,  had  been  adduced  as  proofs  that  something  sin- 
ister was  perpetrated  within.  The  alchemist's  conversations 
and  soliloquies  in  the  garden  had  been  overheard  and  misrepre- 
sented. The  lights  and  strange  appearances  at  night,  in  the 
tower,  were  given  with  violent  exaggerations.  Shrieks  and 
yells  were  said  to  have  been  heard  thence  at  midnight,  when, 
it  was  confidently  asserted,  the  old  man  raised  familiar  spirits 
by  his  incantations,  and  even  compelled  the  dead  to  rise  from 
their  graves,  and  answer  to  his  questions. 

The  alchemist,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  inquisition, 
was  kept  in  complete  ignorance  of  his  accuser ;  of  the  witnesses 
produced  against  him  ;  even  of  the  crimes  of  which  he  was  ac- 
cused. He  was  examined  generally,  whether  he  knew  why  he 
was  arrested,  and  was  conscious  of  any  guilt  that  might  deserve 
the  notice  of  the  holy  office  ?  He  was  examined  as  to  his  coun- 
try, his  life,  his  habits,  his  pursuits,  his  actions,  and  opinions. 
The  old  man  was  frank  and  simple  in  his  replies ;  he  was  con- 
scious of  no  guilt,  capable  of  no  art,  practised  in  no  dissimula- 
tion. After  receiving  a  general  admonition  to  bethink  himself 
whether  he  had  not  committed  any  act  deserving  of  punishment, 
and  to  prepare,  by  confession,  to  secure  the  well-known  mercy 
of  the  tribunal,  he  was  remanded  to  his  cell. 

He  was  now  visited  in  his  dungeon  by  crafty  familiars  of  the 
inquisition ;  who,  under  pretence  of  sympathy  and  kindness, 
came  to  beguile  the  tecliousness  of  his  imprisonment  with 
friendly  conversation.  They  casually  introduced  the  subject 
of  alchemy,  on  which  they  touched  with  great  caution  and  pre- 
tended indifference.  There  was  no  need  of  such  craftiness. 
The  honest  enthusiast  had  no  suspicion  in  his  nature :  the  mo- 
ment they  touched  upon  his  favorite  theme,  he  forgot  his  mis- 
fortunes and  imprisonment,  and  broke  forth  into  rhapsodies 
about  the  divine  science. 

The  conversation  was  artfully  turned  to  the  discussion  of 
elementary  beings.  The  alchemist  readily  avowed  his  belief 
in  them ;  and  that  there  had  been  instances  of  their  attending 
upon  philosophers,  and  administering  to  their  wishes.  He 
related  many  miracles  said  to  have  been  performed  by  Apol- 
lonius  Thyaneus,  through  the  aid  of  spirits  or  demons ;  inso- 
much that  he  was  set  up  by  the  heathens  in  opposition  to  the 
Messiah ;  and  was  even  regarded  with  reverence  by  many 
Christians.  The  familiars  eagerly  demanded  whether  he  be- 
lieved Apollouius  to  b«  a  true  and  worthy  philosopher.  T«o 


134  BRACEBR1DGE  HALL. 

unaffected  piety  of  the  alchemist  protected  him  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  simplicity  ;  for  he  condemned  Apollonius  as  a  sor- 
cerer and  an  impostor.  No  art  could  draw  from  him  an  admis- 
sion that  he  had  ever  employed  or  invoked  spiritual  agencies  in 
the  prosecution  of  his  pursuits,  though  he  believed  himself  to 
have  been  frequently  impeded  by  their  invisible  interference. 

The  inquisitors  were  sorely  vexed  at  not  being  able  to  inveigle 
him  into  a  confession  of  a  criminal  nature  ;  they  attributed  their 
failure  to  craft,  to  obstinacy,  to  every  cause  but  the  right  one, 
namely,  that  the  harmless  visionary  had  nothing  guilty  to  con- 
fess. They  had  abundant  proof  of  a  secret  nature  against  him  ; 
but  it  was  the  practice  of  the  inquisition  to  endeavor  to  procure 
confession  from  the  prisoners.  An  auto  da  fe  was  at  hand ; 
the  worthy  fathers  were  eager  for  his  conviction,  for  they  were 
always  anxious  to  have  a  good  number  of  culprits  condemned 
to  the  stake,  to  grace  these  solemn  triumphs.  He  was  at  length 
brought  to  a  final  examination. 

The  chamber  of  trial  was  spacious  and  gloomy.  At  one  end 
was  a  huge  crucifix,  the  standard  of  the  inquisition.  A  long 
table  extended  through  the  centre  of  the  room,  at  which  sat 
the  inquisitors  and  their  secretary ;  at  the  other  end,  a  stool 
was  placed  for  the  prisoner. 

He  was  brought  in,  according  to  custom,  bare-headed  and 
bare-legged.  He  was  enfeebled  by  confinement  and  affliction  ; 
by  constantly  brooding  over  the  unknown  fate  of  his  child,  and 
the  disastrous  interruption  of  his  experiments.  He  sat  bowed 
down  and  listless ;  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast ;  his  whole 
appearance  that  of  one  "past  hope,  abandoned,  and  by  himself 
given  over." 

The  accusation  alleged  against  him  was  now  brought  for- 
ward in  a  specific  form  ;  he  was  called  upon  by  name,  Felix  de 
Vasquez,  formerly  of  Castile,  to  answer  to  the  charges  of  necro- 
mancy and  demonology.  He  was  told  that  the  charges  were 
amply  substantiated  ;  and  was  asked  whether  he  was  ready,  by 
full  confession,  to  throw  himself  upon  the  well-known  mercy 
of  the  holy  inquisition. 

The  philosopher  testified  some  slight  surprise  at  the  nature 
of  the  accusation,  but  simply  replied,  "  I  am  innocent." 

"  What  proof  have  3'ou  to  give  of  your  innocence  !  " 

"  It  rather  remains  for  you  to  prove  your  charges,"  said  the 
old  man.  "•  I  am  a  stranger  and  a  sojourner  in  the  land,  and 
know  no  one  out  of  the  doors  of  my  dwelling.  I  can  give 
nothing  in  my  vindication  but  the  word  of  a  nobleman  and  a 
Castilian." 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  135 

The  inquisitor  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  to  repeat  the 
various  inquiries  that  had  before  been  made  as  to  his  mode  of 
life  and  pursuits.  The  poor  alchemist  was  too  feeble  and  too 
weary  at  heart  to  make  any  but  brief  replies.  He  requested 
that  some  man  of  science  might  examine  his  laboratory,  and  all 
his  books  and  papers,  by  which  it  would  be  made  abundantly 
evident  that  he  was  merely  engaged  in  the  study  of  alchemy. 

To  this  the  inquisitor  observed,  that  alchemy  had  become  a 
mere  covert  for  secret  and  deadly  sins.  That  the  practisers  of 
it  were  apt  to  scruple  at  no  means  to  satisfy  their  inordinate 
greediness  of  gold.  Some  had  been  known  to  use  spells  and 
impious  ceremonies ;  to  conjure  the  aid  of  evil  spirits ;  nay, 
even  to  sell  their  souls  to  the  enemy  of  mankind,  so  that  they 
might  riot  in  boundless  wealth  while  living. 

The  poor  alchemist  had  heard  all  patiently,  or,  at  least,  pas- 
sively. He  had  disdained  to  vindicate  his  name  otherwise 
than  by  his  word ;  he  had  smiled  at  the  accusations  of  sorcery, 
when  applied  merely  to  himself;  but  when  the  sublime  art, 
which  had  been  the  study  and  passion  of  his  life,  was  assailed, 
he  could  no  longer  listen  in  silence.  His  head  gradually  rose 
from  his  bosom ;  a  hectic  color  came  in  faint  streaks  to  his 
cheek ;  played  about  there,  disappeared,  returned,  and  at 
length  kindled  into  a  burning  glow.  The  clammy  dampness 
dried  from  his  forehead;  his  eyes,  which  had  been  nearly 
extinguished,  lighted  up  again,  and  burned  with  their  wonted 
and  visionary  fires.  He  entered  into  a  vindication  of  his  fa- 
vorite art.  His  voice  at  first  was  feeble  and  broken ;  but  it 
gathered  strength  as  he  proceeded,  until  it  rolled  in  a  deep  and 
sonorous  volume.  He  gradually  rose  from  his  seat,  as  he  rose 
with  his  subject ;  he  threw  back  the  scanty  black  mantle  which 
'.had  hitherto  wrapped  his  limbs ;  the  very  uncouthness  of  his 
'form  and  looks  gave  an  impressive  effect  to  what  he  uttered ; 
?.t  was  as  though  a  corpse  had  become  suddenly  animated. 

He  repelled  with  scorn  the  aspersions  cast  upon  alchemy  oy 
the  ignorant  and  vulgar.  He  affirmed  it  to  be  the  mother  of 
all  art  and  science,  citing  the  opinions  of  Paracelsus,  Sandi- 
vogius,  Raymond  Lully,  and  others,  in  support  of  his  asser- 
tions. He  maintained  that  it  was  pure  and  innocent  and 
honorable  both  in  its  purposes  and  means.  What  were  ita 
objects?  The  perpetuation  of  life  and  youth,  and  the  produc- 
tion of  gold.  "The  elixir  vitse,"  said  he,  "is  no  charmed 
potion,  but  merely  a  concentration  of  those  elements  of  vitality 
which  nature  has  scattered  through  her  works.  The  philoso- 
pher's stone,  or  tincture,  or  powder,  as  it  is  variously  called,  is 


136  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

no  necromantic  talisman,  but  consists  simply  of  those  particles 
which  gold  contains  within  itself  for  its  reproduction  ;  for  gold, 
like  other  things,  has  its  seed  within  itself,  though  bound  up 
with  inconceivable  firmness,  from  the  vigor  of  innate  fixed 
salts  and  sulphurs.  In  seeking  to  discover  the  elixir  of  life, 
then,"  continued  he,  "  we  seek  only  to  apply  some  of  nature's 
own  specifics  against  the  disease  and  decay  to  which  our  bodies 
are  subjected  ;  and  what  else  does  the  physician,  when  he  tasks 
his  art,  and  uses  subtle  compounds  and  cunning  distillations, 
to  revive  our  languishing  powers,  and  avert  the  stroke  of  death 
for  a  season? 

"In  seeking  to  multiply  the  precious  metals,  also,  we  seek 
but  to  germinate  and  multiply,  by  natural  means,  a  particular 
species  of  nature's  productions ;  and  what  else  does  the  hus- 
bandman, who  consults  times  and  seasons,  and,  by  what  might 
be  deemed  a  natural  magic,  from  the  mere  scattering  of  his 
hand,  covers  a  whole  plain  with  golden  vegetation?  The  mys- 
teries of  our  art,  it  is  true,  are  deeply  and  darkly  hidden  ;  but 
it  requires  so  much  the  more  innocence  and  purity  of  thought, 
to  penetrate  unto  them.  No,  father !  the  true  alchemist  must 
be  pure  in  mind  and  body ;  he  must  be  temperate,  patient, 
chaste,  watchful,  meek,  humble,  devout.  '  My  son,'  says 
Hermes  Trismegestes,  the  great  master  of  our  art,  '  my  son,  I 
recommend  you  above  all  things  to  fear  God.'  And  indeed  it 
is  only  by  devout  castigation  of  the  senses,  and  purification  of 
the  soul  that  the  alchemist  is  enabled  to  enter  into  the  sacred 
chambers  of  truth.  '  Labor,  pray,  and  read,'  is  the  motto  of 
our  science.  As  De  Nuysment  well  observes,  '  These  high  and 
singular  favors  are  granted  unto  none,  save  only  unto  the 
sons  of  God,  (that  is  to  say,  the  virtuous  and  devout,)  who, 
under  his  paternal  benediction,  have  obtained  the  opening  of 
the  same,  by  the  helping  hand  of  the  queen  of  arts,  divine 
Philosophy.'  Indeed,  so  sacred  has  the  nature  of  this  knowl- 
edge been  considered,  that  we  are  told  it  has  four  times  been 
expressly  communicated  by  God  to  man,  having  made  a  part  of 
that  cabalistical  wisdom  which  was  revealed  to  Adam  to  con- 
sole him  for  the  loss  of  Paradise ;  to  Moses  in  the  bush,  to  Solo- 
mon in  a  dream,  and  to  Esdras  by  the  angel. 

So  far  from  demons  and  malign  spirits  being  the  friends 
and  abettors  of  the  alchemist,  they  are  the  continual  foes  with 

hich  he  has  to  contend.  It  is  their  constant  endeavor  to  shut 
up  the  avenues  to  those  truths  which  would  enable  him  to  rise 
above  the  abject  state  into  which  he  has  fallen,  and  return  to 
that  excellence  which  was  his  original  birthright.  For  what 


S 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  137 

•would  be  the  effect  of  this  length  of  days,  and  this  abundant 
wealth,  but  to  enable  the  possessor  to  go  on  from  art  to  art, 
from  science  to  science,  with  energies  unimpaired  by  sickness, 
uninterrupted  by  death?  For  this  have  sages  and  philosophers 
shut  themselves  up  in  cells  and  solitudes  ;  buried  themselves  in 
caves  and  dens  of  the  earth ;  turning  from  the  joys  of  life, 
and  the  pleasance  of  the  world ;  enduring  scorn,  poverty,  per- 
secution. For  this  was  Raymond  Lully  stoned  to  death  in 
Mauritania.  For  this  did  the  immortal  Pietro  D'Abano  suffer 
persecution  at  Padua,  and,  when  he  escaped  from  his  oppressors 
by  death,  was  despitefully  burnt  in  effigy.  For  this  have  illus- 
trious men  of  all  nations  intrepidly  suffered  martyrdom.  For 
this,  if  unmolested,  have  they  assiduously  employed  the  latest 
hour  of  life,  the  expiring  throb  of  existence  ;  hoping  to  the  last 
that  they  might  yet  seize  upon  the  prize  for  which  they  had 
struggled,  and  pluck  themselves  back  even  from  the  very  jaws 
of  the  grave ! 

"  For,  when  once  the  alchemist  shall  have  attained  the  object 
of  his  toils ;  when  the  sublime  secret  shall  be  revealed  to  his 
gaze,  how  glorious  will  be  the  change  in  his  condition !  How 
will  he  emerge  from  his  solitary  retreat,  like  the  sun  breaking 
forth  from  the  darksome  chamber  of  the  night,  and  darting  his 
beams  throughout  the  earth !  Gifted  with  perpetual  youth  and 
boundless  riches,  to  what  heights  of  wisdom  may  he  attain ! 
How  may  he  carry  on,  uninterrupted,  the  thread  of  knowledge, 
which  has  hitherto  been  snapped  at  the  death  of  each  philoso- 
pher !  And,  as  the  increase  of  wisdcm  is  the  increase  of  virtue, 
how  may  he  become  the  benefaetor  .of  his  fellow-men  ;  dis- 
pensing, with  liberal  but  cautious  and  discriminating  hand, 
that  inexhaustible  wealth  whiclTiS  at  hw  disposal ;  banishing 
poverty,  which  is  the  cause  of  so  much  sorrow  and  wickedness  ; 
encouraging  the  arts  ;  promoting  discoveries^  and  enlarging  all 
the  means  of  virtuous  enjoyment !  -His  life  wnTbe^he  connect- 
ing band  of  generations.  History  will  live  in  his  recollection  ; 
distant  ages  will  speak  with  his  tongue.  The  nations  of  the 
earth  will  look  to  him  as  their  preceptor,  and  kings  will  sit  at  his 
feet  and  learn  wisdom.  Oh  glorious  !  oh  celestial  alchemy  !  "  — 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  the  inquisitor,  who  had  suffered 
him  to  go  on  thus  far,  in  hopes  of  gathering  something  from 
his  unguarded  enthusiasm.  "  Senor,"  said  he,  "  this  is  all 
rambling,  visionary  talk.  You  are  charged  with  sorcery,  and 
in  defence  you  give  us  a  rhapsody  about  alchemy.  Have  you 
nothing  better  than  this  to  offer  in  your  defence?  " 

The  old  man  slowly  resumed  his  seat,  but  did  not  deign  a 


138  BRACEBRIDGE  U ALL. 

reply.  The  fire  that  had  beamed  in  his  eye  gradually  expired. 
His  cheek  resumed  its  wonted  paleness  ;  but  he  did  not  relapse 
into  inanity.  He  sat  with  a  steady,  serene,  patient  look,  like 
one  prepared  not  to  contend,  but  to  suffer. 

His  trial  continued  for  a  long  time,  with  cruel  mocker}7  of 
justice,  for  no  witnesses  were  ever  in  this  court  confronted  with 
the  accused,  and  the  latter  had  continually  to  defend  himself 
in  the  dark.  Some  unknown  and  powerful  enemy  had  alleged 
charges  against  the  unfortunate  alchemist,  but  who  he  could 
not  imagine.  Stranger  and  sojourner  as  he  was  in  the  land, 
solitary  and  harmless  in  his  pursuits,  how  could  he  have  pro- 
voked such  hostility?  The  tide  of  secret  testimony,  however, 
was  too  strong  against  him  ;  he  was  convicted  of  the  crime  of 
magic,  and  condemned  to  expiate  his  sins  at  the  stake,  at  the 
approaching  auto  da  fe\ 

While  the  unhappy  alchemist  was  undergoing  his  trial  at  the 
inquisition,  his  daughter  was  exposed  to  trials  no  less  severe. 
Don  Ambrosio,  into  whose  hands  she  had  fallen,  was,  as  has 
before  been  intimated,  one  of  the  most  daring  and  lawless 
profligates  in  all  Granada.  He  was  a  man  of  hot  blood  and 
fiery  passions,  who  stopped  at  nothing  in  the  gratification  of 
his  desires ;  yet  with  all  this  he  possessed  manners,  address, 
and  accomplishments,  that  had  made  him  eminently  successful 
among  the  sex.  From  the  palace  to  the  cottage  he  had  ex- 
tended his  amorous  enterprises ;  his  serenades  harassed  the 
slumbers  of  half  the  husbands  in  Granada ;  no  balcony  was 
too  high  for  his  adventurous  attempts,  nor  any  cottage  too 
lowly  for  his  perfidious  seductions.  Yet  he  was  as  fickle  as 
he  was  ardent ;  success  had  made  him  vain  and  capricious ; 
he  had  no  sentiment  to  attach  him  to  the  victim  of  his  arts ; 
and  many  a  pale  cheek  and  fading  eye,  languishing  amidst 
the  sparkling  of  jewels,  and  many  a  breaking  heart,  throbbing 
under  the  rustic  bodice,  bore  testimon}r  to  his  triumphs  and 
his  faithlessness. 

He  was  sated,  however,  by  easy  conquests,  and  wearied  of  a 
life  of  continual  and  prompt  gratification.  There  had  been 
a  degree  of  difficulty  and  enterprise  in  the  pursuit  of  Inez  that 
he  had  never  before  experienced.  It  had  aroused  him  from 
the  monotony  of  mere  sensual  life,  and  stimulated  him  with  the 
charm  of  adventure.  He  had  become  an  epicure  in  pleasure  ; 
and  now  that  he  had  this  coy  beauty  in  his  power,  he  was  de- 
termined to  protract  his  enjoyment,  by  the  gradual  conquest  of 
her  scruples  and  downfall  of  her  virtue.  He  was  vain  of  his 
person  and  address,  which  he  thought  no  woman  could  long 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  189 

withstand ;  and  it  was  a  kind  of  trial  of  skill  to  endeavor  to 
gain,  by  art  and  fascination,  what  he  was  secure  of  obtaining 
at  any  time  by  violence. 

When  Inez,  therefore,  was  brought  to  his  presence  by  his 
emissaries,  he  affected  not  to  notice  her  terror  and  surprise,  but 
received  her  with  formal  and  stately  courtesy.  He  was  too 
wary  a  fowler  to  flutter  the  bird  when  just  entangled  in  the 
net.  To  her  eager  and  wild  inquiries  about  her  father,  he 
begged  her  not  to  be  alarmed  ;  that  he  was  safe,  and  had  been 
there,  but  was  engaged  elsewhere  in  an  affair  of  moment,  from 
which  he  would  soon  return ;  in  the  mean  time,  he  had  left 
word  that  she  should  await  his  return  in  patience.  After  some 
stately  expressions  of  general  civility,  Don  Ambrosio  made  a 
ceremonious  bow  and  retired. 

The  mind  of  Inez  was  full  of  trouble  and  perplexity.  The 
stately  formality  of  Don  Ambrosio  was  so  unexpected  as  to 
check  the  accusations  and  reproaches  that  were  springing  to  her 
lips.  Had  he  had  evil  designs,  would  he  have  treated  her  with 
such  frigid  ceremony  when  he  had  her  in  his  power?  But  why, 
then,  was  she  brought  to  his  house  ?  Was  not  the  mysterious 
disappearance  of  Antonio  connected  with  this?  A  thought 
suddenly  darted  into  her  miud.  Antonio  had  again  met  with 
Don  Ambrosio  —  they  had  fought  —  Antonio  was  wounded  — 
perhaps  dying  !  It  was  him  to  whom  her  father  had  gone  —  it 
was  at  his  request  that  Don  Ambrosio  had  sent  for  them,  to 
soothe  his  dying  moments  !  These,  and  a  thousand  such  horrible 
suggestions,  harassed  her  mind ;  but  she  tried  in  vain  to  get  in- 
formation from  the  domestics  ;  they  knew  nothing  but  that  her 
father  had  been  there,  had  gone,  and  would  soon  return. 

Thus  passed  a  night  of  tumultuous  thought,  and  vague  yet 
cruel  apprehensions.  She  knew  not  what  to  do  or  what  to 
believe  —  whether  she  ought  to  fly,  or  to  remain  ;  but  if  to  fly, 
how  was  she  to  extricate  herself?  —  and  where  was  she  to  seek 
her  father?  As  the  day  dawned  without  any  intelligence  of 
him,  her  alarm  increased  ;  at  length  a  message  was  brought 
from  him,  saying  that  circumstances  prevented  his  return  to 
her,  but  begging  her  to  hasten  to  him  without  delay. 

With  an  eager  and  throbbing  heart  did  she  set  forth  with  the 
men  that  were  to  conduct  her.  She  little  thought,  however, 
that  she  was  merely  changing  her  prison-house.  Don  Ambro- 
sio had  feared  lest  she  should  be  traced  to  his  residence  in 
Granada :  or  that  he  might  be  interrupted  there  before  he  could 
accomplish  his  plan  of  seduction.  He  had  her  now  conveyed, 
therefore,  to  a  mansion  which  he  possessed  in  one  of  the  moun 


X40  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

t&in  solitudes  in  the  neighborhood  of  Granada ;  a  lonely,  but 
beautiful  retreat.  In  vain,  on  her  arrival,  did  she  look  around 
for  her  father  or  Antonio  ;  none  but  strange  faces  met  her  eye  ; 
menials,  profoundly  respectful,  but  who  knew  nor  saw  any  thing 
but  what  their  master  pleased. 

She  had  scarcely  arrived  before  Don  Ambrosio  made  his  ap- 
pearance, less  stately  in  his  manner,  but  still  treating  her  with 
the  utmost  delicacy  and  deference.  Inez  was  too  much  agitated 
and  alarmed  to  be  baffled  by  his  courtesy,  and  became  vehe- 
ment in  her  demand  to  be  conducted  to  her  father. 

Don  Ambrosio  now  put  on  an  appearance  of  the  greatest 
embarrassment  and  emotion.  After  some  delay,  and  much 
pretended  confusion,  he  at  length  confessed  that  the  seizure 
of  her  father  was  all  a  stratagem  ;  a  mere  false  alarm,  to  pro- 
cure him  the  present  opportunity  of  having  access  to  her,  and 
endeavoring  to  mitigate  that  obduracy,  and  conquer  that  re- 
pugnance, which  ho  declared  had  almost  driven  him  to  distrac- 
tion. 

He  assured  her  that  her  father  was  again  at  home  in  safety, 
and  occupied  in  his  usual  pursuits  ;  having  been  fully  satisfied 
that  his  daughter  was  in  honorable  hands,  and  would  soon  be 
restored  to  him.  In  vain  she  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  and 
implored  to  be  set  at  liberty;  he  only  replied  by  gentle  en- 
treaties, that  she  would  pardon  the  seeming  violence  he  had  to 
use  ;  and  that  she  would  trust  a  little  while  to  his  honor.  "  You 
are  here,"  said  he,  u  absolute  mistress  of  every  thing  :  nothing 
shall  be  said  or  done  to  offend  you :  I  will  not  even  intrude 
upon  your  ear  the  unhappy  passion  that  is  devouring  my  heart. 
Should  you  require  it,  I  will  even  absent  myself  from  your 
presence ;  but,  to  part  with  you  entirely  at  pi-esent,  with  your 
mind  full  of  doubts  and  resentments,  would  be  worse  than 
death  to  me.  No,  beautiful  Inez,  you  must  first  know  me  a 
little  better,  and  know  by  my  conduct  that  my  passion  for  you 
is  as  delicate  and  respectful  as  it  is  vehement." 

The  assurance  of  her  father's  safety  had  relieved  Inez 
from  one  cause  of  torturing  anxiety,  only  to  render  her  fears 
more  violent  on  her  own  account.  Don  Ambrosio.  however, 
continued  to  treat  her  with  artful  deference,  that  insensibly 
lulled  her  apprehensions.  It  is  true  she  found  herself  a  captive, 
but  no  advantage  appeared  to  be  taken  of  her  helplessness. 
She  soothed  herself  with  the  idea  that  a  little  while  would  suffice 
to  convince  Don  Ambrosio  of  the  fallacy  of  his  hopes,  and 
that  he  would  be  induced  to  restore  her  to  her  home.  Her 
transports  of  terror  and  affliction,  therefore,  subsided,  in  a  few 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  141 

days,  into  a  passive,  yet  anxious  melancholy,  with  which  she 
awaited  the  hoped-for  event. 

In  the  mean  while,  all  those  artifices  were  employed  that  are 
calculated  to  charm  the  senses,  insnare  the  feelings,  and  dis- 
solve the  heart  into  tenderness.  Don  Ambrosio  was  a  master 
of  the  subtle  arts  of  seduction.  His  very  mansion  breathed  an 
enervating  atmosphere  of  languor  and  delight.  It  was  here, 
amidst  twilight  saloons  and  dreamy  chambers,  buried  among 
groves  of  orange  and  myrtle,  that  he  shut  himself  up  at  times 
from  the  prying  world,  and  gave  free  scope  to  the  gratification 
of  his  pleasures. 

The  apartments  were  furnished  in  the  most  sumptuous  and 
voluptuous  manner ;  the  silken  couches  swelled  to  the  touch, 
and  sunk  in  downy  softness  beneath  the  slightest  pressure. 
The  paintings  and  statues,  all  told  some  classic  tale  of  love, 
managed,  however,  with  an  insidious  delicacy ;  which,  while  it 
banished  the  grossness  that  might  disgust,  was  the  more  calcu- 
lated to  excite  the  imagination.  There  the  blooming  Adonis 
was  seen,  not  breaking  away  to  pursue  the  boisterous  chase, 
but  crowned  with  flowers,  and  languishing  in  the  embraces  of 
celestial  beauty.  There  Acis  wooed  his  Galatea  in  the  shade, 
with  the  Sicilian  sea  spreading  in  halcyon  serenity  before  them. 
There  were  depicted  groups  of  fauns  and  dryads,  fondly  re- 
clining in  summer  bowers,  and  listening  to  the  liquid  piping 
of  the  reed  ;  or  the  wanton  satyrs,  surprising  some  wood-nymph 
during  her  noontide  slumber.  There,  too,  on  the  storied  tapes- 
try, might  be  seen  the  chaste  Diana,  stealing,  in  the  mystery  of 
moonlight,  to  kiss  the  sleeping  Endymion ;  while  Cupid  and 
Psyche,  in  twined  in  immortal  marble,  breathed  on  each  other's 
lips  the  early  kiss  of  love. 

The  ardent  rays  of  the  sun  were  excluded  from  these 
balmy  halls ;  soft  and  tender  music  from  unseen  musicians 
floated  around,  seeming  to  mingle  with  the  perfumes  exhaled 
from  a  thousand  flowers.  At  night,  when  the  moon  shed  a 
fairy  light  over  the  scene,  the  tender  serenade  would  rise  from 
among  the  bowers  of  the  garden,  in  which  the  fine  voice  of 
Don  Ambrosio  might  often  be  distinguished ;  or  the  amorous 
flute  would  be  heard  along  the  mountain,  breathing  in  its  pen- 
sive cadences  the  very  soul  of  a  lover's  melancholy. 

Various  entertainments  were  also  devised  to  dispel  her  lone- 
liness, and  to  charm  away  the  idea  of  confinement.  Groups  of 
Andalusian  dancers  performed,  in  the  splendid  saloons,  the 
various  picturesque  dances  of  their  country ;  or  represented 
little  amorous  ballets,  which  turned  upon  some  pleasing  scene 


142  BEACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

of  pastoral  coquetry  and  courtship.  Sometimes  there  were 
bands  of  singers,  who,  to  the  romantic  guitar,  warbled  forth 
ditties  full  of  passion  and  tenderness. 

Thus  all  about  her  enticed  to  pleasure  and  voluptuousness ; 
but  the  heart  of  Inez  turned  with  distaste  from  this  idle 
mockery.  The  tears  would  rush  into  her  eyes,  as  her  thoughts 
reverted  from  this  scene  of  profligate  splendor,  to  th<->  humble 
but  virtuous  home  whence  she  had  been  betrayed ;  or  if  the 
witching  power  of  music  ever  soothed  ker  into  a  tender  rev- 
erie, it  was  to  dwell  with  fondness  on  the  image  of  Antonio. 
But  if  Don  Ambrosio,  deceived  by  this  transient  calm,  should 
attempt  at  such  time  to  whisper  his  passion,  she  would  start  as 
from  a  dream,  and  recoil  from  him  with  involuntary  shudder- 
ing. 

She  had  passed  one  long  day  of  more  than  ordinary  sadness, 
and  in  the  evening  a  band  of  these  hired  performers  were 
exerting  all  the  animating  powers  of  song  and  dance  to  amuse 
her.  But  while  the  lofty  saloon  resounded  with  their  warblings, 
and  the  light  sound  of  feet  upon  its  marble  pavement  kept 
time  to  the  cadence  of  the  song,  poor  Inez,  with  her  face  buried 
in  the  silken  couch  on  which  she  reclined,  was  only  rendered 
more  wretched  by  the  sound  of  gayety. 

At  length  her  attention  was  caught  by  the  voice  of  one  of  the 
singers,  that  brought  with  it  some  indefinite  recollections.  She 
raised  her  head,  and  cast  an  anxious  look  at  the  performers, 
who,  as  usual,  were  at  the  lower  end  of  the  saloon.  One  of 
them  advanced  a  little  before  the  others.  It  was  a  female, 
dressed  in  a  fanciful,  pastoral  garb,  suited  to  the  character  she 
was  sustaining ;  but  her  countenance  was  not  to  be  mistaken. 
It  was  the  same  ballad-singer  that  had  twice  crossed  her  path, 
and  given  her  mysterious  intimations  of  the  lurking  mischief 
that  surrounded  her.  When  the  rest  of  the  performances 
were  concluded,  she  seized  a  tambourine,  and,  tossing  it  aloft, 
danced  alone  to  the  melody  of  her  own  voice.  In  the  course 
of  her  dancing,  she  approached  to  where  Inez  reclined  :  and  as 
she  struck  the  tambourine,  contrived  dexterously  to  throw  a 
folded  paper  on  the  couch.  Inez  seized  it  with  avidity,  and 
concealed  it  in  her  bosom.  The  singing  and  dancing  were  at 
an  end  ;  the  motley  crew  retired  ;  and  Inez,  left  alone,  hastened 
with  anxiety  to  unfold  the  paper  thus  mysteriously  conveyed. 
It  was  written  in  an  agitated,  and  almost  illegible  handwriting : 
"  Be  on  your  guard  !  }*ou  are  surrounded  by  treachery.  Trust 
not  to  the  forbearance  of  Don  Ambrosio ;  you  are  marked  out 
for  his  prey.  An  humble  victim  to  his  perfidy  gives  you  this 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  143 

warning  ;  she  is  encompassed  by  too  many  dangers  to  be  more 
explicit.  —  Your  father  is  in  the  dungeons  of  the  inquisition  !  " 

The  brain  of  Inez  reeled,  as  she  read  this  dreadful  scroll. 
She  was  less  filled  with  alarm  at  her  own  danger,  than  horror 
at  her  father's  situation.  The  moment  Don  Ambrosio  appeared, 
she  rushed  and  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  imploring  him  to  save 
her  father.  Don  Ambrosio  stared  with  astonishment ;  but 
immediately  regaining  his  self-possession,  endeavored  to  soothe 
her  by  his  blandishments,  and  by  assurances  that  her  father  was 
in  safety.  She  was  not  to  be  pacified ;  her  fears  were  too  much 
aroused  to  be  trifled  with.  She  declared  her  knowledge  of  her 
father's  being  a  prisoner  of  the  inquisition,  and  reiterated  her 
frantic  supplications  that  he  would  save  him. 

Don  Ambrosio  paused  for  a  moment  in  perplexity,  but  was 
too  adroit  to  be  easily  confounded.  "That  your  father  is  a 
prisoner,"  replied  he,  "I  have  long  known.  I  have  concealed 
it  from  you,  to  save  you  from  fruitless  anxiety.  You  now 
know  the  real  reason  of  the  restraint  I  have  put  upon  your 
liberty :  I  have  been  protecting  instead  of  detaining  you 
Every  exertion  has  been  made  in  your  father's  favor ;  but  I 
regret  to  say,  the  proofs  of  the  offences  of  which  he  stands 
charged  have  been  too  strong  to  be  controverted.  Still,"  added 
he,  "  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  save  him  ;  I  have  influence,  I 
have  means  at  my  beck  ;  it  may  involve  me,  it  is  true,  in  diffi- 
culties, perhaps  in  disgrace ;  but  what  would  I  not  do,  in  the 
hope  of  being  rewarded  by  your  favor?  Speak,  beautiful 
Inez,"  said  he,  his  eyes  kindling  with  sudden  eagerness;  "it 
is  with  you  to  say  the  word  that  seals  your  father's  fate.  One 
kind  word  —  say  but  you  will  be  mine,  and  you  will  behold  me 
at  your  feet,  your  father  at  liberty  and  in  affluence,  and  we 
shall  all  be  happy  !  " 

Inez  drew  back  from  him  with  scorn  and  disbelief.  "  My 
father,"  exclaimed  she,  "is  too  innocent  and  blameless  to  be 
convicted  of  crime;  this  is  some  base,  some  cruel  artifice!" 
Don  Ambrosio  repeated  his  asseverations,  and  with  them  also 
his  dishonorable  proposals  ;  but  his  eagerness  overshot  its  mark  ; 
her  indignation  and  her  incredulity  were  alike  awakened  by  his 
base  suggestions ;  and  he  retired  from  her  presence,  checked 
and  awed  by  the  sudden  pride  and  dignity  of  her  demeanor. 

The  unfortunate  Inez  now  became  a  prey  to  the  most  har- 
rowing anxieties.  Don  Ambrosio  saw  that  the  mask  had  fallen 
from  his  face,  and  that  the  nature  of  his  machinations  was 
revealed.  He  had  gone  too  far  to  retrace  his  steps,  and  assume 
the  affectation  of  tenderness  and  respect ;  indeed,  he  was  mor- 


144  BEACEBR1DGE  HALL. 

tified  and  incensed  at  her  insensibility  to  his  attractions,  and 
now  only  sought  to  subdue  her  through  her  fears.  He  daily 
represented  to  her  the  dangers  that  threatened  her  father,  and 
that  it  was  in  his  power  alone  to  avert  them.  Inez  was  still 
incredulous.  She  was  too  ignorant  of  the  nature  of  the  inqui- 
sition, to  know  that  even  innocence  was  not  always  a  protection 
from  its  cruelties  ;  and  she  confided  too  surely  in  the  virtue  of  her 
father,  to  believe  that  any  accusation  could  prevail  against  him. 

At  length  Don  Ambrosio,  to  give  an  effectual  blow  to  her 
confidence,  brought  her  the  proclamation  of  the  approaching 
auto  da  fe",  in  which  the  prisoners  were  enumerated.  She 
glanced  her  eye  over  it,  and  beheld  her  father's  name,  con- 
demned to  the  stake  for  sorcery  ! 

For  a  moment  she  stood  transfixed  with  horror.  Don  Am- 
brosio seized  upon  the  transient  calm.  "  Think,  now,  beautiful 
Inez,"  said  he,  with  a  tone  of  affected  tenderness,  "  his  life  is 
still  in  your  hands  ;  one  word  from  you,  one  kind  word,  and  I 
can  yet  save  him." 

"Monster!  wretch!"  cried  she,  coming  to  herself,  and 
recoiling  from  him  with  insuperable  abhorrence:  "  'Tis  you 
that  are  the  cause  of  this —  'tis  you  that  are  his  murderer!  " 
Then,  wringing  her  hands,  she  broke  forth  into  exclamations  of 
the  most  frantic  agony. 

The  perfidious  Ambrosio  saw  the  torture  of  her  soul,  and 
anticipated  from  it  a  triumph.  He  saw  that  she  was  in  no 
mood,  during  her  present  paroxysm,  to  listen  to  his  words  ;  but 
he  trusted  that  the  horrors  of  lonely  rumination  would  break 
down  her  spirit,  and  subdue  her  to  his  will.  In  this,  however, 
he  was  disappointed.  Many  were  the  vicissitudes  of  mind  of 
the  wretched  Inez  ;  at  one  time  she  would  embrace  his  knees, 
with  piercing  supplications ;  at  another,  she  would  shrink  with 
nervous  horror  at  his  very  approach ;  but  any  intimation  of  his 
passion  only  excited  the  same  emotion  of  loathing  and  detesta- 
tion. 

At  length  the  fatal  day  drew  nigh.  "  To-morrow,"  said  Don 
Ambrosio  as  he  left  her  one  evening,  "to-morrow  is  the  auto 
da  fe".  To-morrow  you  will  hear  the  sound  of  the  bell  that  tolls 
your  father  to  his  death.  You  will  almost  see  the  smoke  that 
rises  from  his  funeral  pile.  I  leave  you  to  yourself.  It  is  yet 
in  my  power  to  save  him.  Think  whether  you  can  stand  to- 
morrow's hoiTors  without  shrinking !  Think  whether  you  can 
endure  the  after- reflection,  that  you  were  the  cause  of  his  death, 
and  that  merely  through  a  perversity  in  refusing  proffered  hap- 
piness." 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  145 

What  a  night  was  it  to  Inez !  —  her  heart  already  harassed 
and  almost  broken,  by  repeated  and  protracted  anxieties ;  her 
strength  wasted  and  enfeebled.  On  every  side,  horrors  awaited 
her;  her  father's  death,  her  own  dishonor  —  there  seemed  no 
escape  from  misery  or  perdition.  "  Is  there  no  relief  from 
man — no  pity  in  heaven?"  exclaimed  she.  "What  —  what 
have  we  done,  that  we  should  be  thus  wretched?  " 

As  the  dawn  approached,  the  fever  of  her  mind  arose  to 
agony  ;  a  thousand  times  did  she  try  the  doors  and  windows  of 
her  apartment,  in  the  desperate  hope  of  escaping.  Alas  !  with 
all  the  splendor  of  her  prison,  it  was  too  faithfully  secured  for 
her  weak  hands  to  work  deliverance.  Like  a  poor  bird,  that 
beats  its  wings  against  its  gilded  cage,  until  it  sinks  panting  in 
despair,  so  she  threw  herself  on  the  floor  in  hopeless  anguish. 
Her  blood  grew  hot  in  her  veins,  her  tongue  was  parched,  her 
temples  throbbed  with  violence,  she  gasped  rather  than  breathed ; 
it  seemed  as  if  her  brain  was  on  fire.  "  Blessed  Virgin  !  "  ex- 
claimed she,  clasping  her  hands  and  turning  up  her  strained 
eyes,  "look  down  with  pity,  and  support  me  in  this  dreadful 
hour ! ' ' 

Just  as  the  day  began  to  dawn,  she  heard  a  key  turn  softly 
in  the  door  of  her  apartment.  She  dreaded  lest  it  should  be 
Don  Ambrosio ;  and  the  very  thought  of  him  gave  her  a  sick- 
ening pang.  It  was  a  female  clad  in  a  rustic  dress,  with  her 
face  concealed  by  her  mantilla.  She  stepped  silently  into  the 
room,  looked  cautiously  round,  and  then,  uncovering  her  face, 
revealed  the  well-known  features  of  the  ballad-singer.  Inez  ut- 
tered an  exclamation  of  surprise,  almost  of  joy.  The  unknown 
started  back,  pressed  her  finger  on  her  lips  enjoining  silence, 
and  beckoned  her  to  follow.  She  hastily  wrapped  herself  in 
her  veil,  and  obeyed.  They  passed  with  quick,  but  noiseless 
steps  through  an  antechamber,  across  a  spacious  hall,  and  along 
a  corridor ;  all  was  silent ;  the  household  was  yet  locked  in 
sleep.  They  came  to  a  door,  to  which  the  unknown  applied  a 
key.  Inez's  heart  misgave  her ;  she  knew  not  but  some  new 
treachery  was  menacing  her ;  she  laid  her  cold  hand  on  the 
stranger's  arm:  "Whither  are  you  leading  me?"  said  she. 
"  To  liberty,"  replied  the  other,  in  a  whisper. 

"  Do  you  know  the  passages  about  this  mansion?  " 

"But  too  well!"  replied  the  girl,  with  a  melancholy  shake 
of  the  head.  There  was  an  expression  of  sad  veracity  in  her 
countenance,  that  was  not  to  be  distrusted.  The  door  opened 
on  a  small  terrace,  which  was  overlooked  by  several  windows 
of  the  mansion. 


146  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

"  We  must  move  across  this  quickly,"  said  the  girl,  "  or  we 
may  be  observed." 

They  glided  over  it,  as  if  scarce  touching  the  ground.  A 
flight  of  steps  led  down  into  the  garden  ;  a  wicket  at  the  bot- 
tom was  readily  unbolted  :  they  passed  with  breathless  velocity 
along  one  of  the  alleys,  still  in  sight  of  the  mansion,  in  which, 
however,  no  person  appeared  to  be  stirring.  At  length  they 
came  to  a  low  private  door  in  the  wall,  partly  hidden  by  a  fig- 
tree.  It  was  secured  by  rusty  bolts,  that  refused  to  yield  to 
their  feeble  efforts. 

"Holy  Virgin!"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  "what  is  to  be 
done?  one  moment  more,  and  we  may  be  discovered." 

She  seized  a  stone  that  lay  near  by :  a  few  blows,  and  the 
bolt  flew  back ;  the  door  grated  harshly  as  they  opened  it,  and 
the  next  moment  they  found  themselves  in  a  narrow  road. 

"  Now,"  said  the  stranger,  "  for  Granada  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible !  The  nearer  we  approach  it,  the  safer  we  shall  be ;  for 
the  road  will  be  more  frequented." 

The  imminent  risk  they  ran  of  being  pursued  and  taken, 
gave  supernatural  strength  to  their  limbs ;  they  flew,  rather 
than  ran.  The  day  had  dawned ;  the  crimson  streaks  on  the 
edge  of  the  horizon  gave  tokens  of  the  approaching  sunrise ; 
already  the  light  clouds  that  floated  in  the  western  sky  were 
tinged  with  gold  and  purple;  though  the  broad  plain  of  the 
Vega,  which  now  began  to  open  upon  their  view,  was  covered 
with  the  dark  haze  of  morning.  As  yet  they  only  passed  a  few 
straggling  peasants  on  the  road,  who  could  have  yielded  them 
no  assistance  in  case  of  their  being  overtaken.  They  continued 
to  hurry  forward,  and  had  gained  a  considerable  distance,  when 
the  strength  of  Inez,  which  had  only  been  sustained  by  the 
fever  of  her  mind,  begun  to  yield  to  fatigue  :  she  slackened  her 
pace,  and  faltered. 

"Alas!"  said  she,  "my  limbs  fail  me!  I  can  go  no  far- 
ther!" 

"  Bear  up,  bear  up,"  replied  her  companion,  cheeringly ;  "  a 
little  farther,  and  we  shall  be  safe :  look !  yonder  is  Granada, 
just  showing  itself  in  the  valley  below  us.  A  little  farther,  and 
we  shall  come  to  the  main  road,  and  then  we  shall  find  plenty 
of  passengers  to  protect  us." 

Inez,  encouraged,  made  fresh  efforts  to  get  forward,  but  her 
weary  limbs  were  unequal  to  the  eagerness  of  her  mind ;  her 
mouth  and  throat  were  parched  by  agony  and  terror :  she  gasped 
for  breath,  and  leaned  for  support  against  a  rock.  "  It  is  all  in 
vain !"  exclaimed  she  ;  "I  feel  as  though  I  should  faint." 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  147 

"  Lean  on  me,"  said  the  other;  "  let  us  get  into  the  shelter 
of  yon  thicket,  that  will  conceal  us  from  the  view ;  I  hear  the 
sound  of  water,  which  will  refresh  you." 

With  much  difficulty  they  reached  the  thicket,  which  overhung 
a  small  mountain-stream,  just  where  its  sparkling  waters  leaped 
over  the  rock  and  fell  into  a  natural  basin.  Here  Inez  sank 
upon  the  ground,  exhausted.  Her  companion  brought  water  in 
the  palms  of  her  hands,  and  bathed  her  pallid  temples.  The 
cooling  drops  revived  her ;  she  was  enabled  to  get  to  the  mar- 
gin of  the  stream,  and  drink  of  its  crystal  current ;  then,  re- 
clining her  head  on  the  bosom  of  her  deliverer,  she  was  first 
enabled  to  murmur  forth  her  heartfelt  gratitude. 

"Alas!  "  said  the  other,  "I  deserve  no  thanks.  I  deserve 
not  the  good  opinion  you  express.  In  me  you  behold  a  victim 
of  Don  Ambrosio's  arts.  In  early  years  he  seduced  me  from 
the  cottage  of  my  parents :  look !  at  the  foot  of  yonder  blue 
mountain,  in  the  distance,  lies  my  native  village ;  but  it  is  no 
longer  a  home  for  me.  He  lured  me  thence,  \viiea  I  waa 
too  young  for  reflection;  he  educated  me,  taught  me  various 
accomplishments,  made  me  sensible  to  love,  to  splendor,  to  re- 
iinement ;  then,  having  grown  weary  of  me,  he  neglected  me, 
aud  cast  me  upon  the  world.  Happily  the  accomplishments  he 
taught  me  have  kept  me  from  utter  want ;  and  the  love  with 
which  he  inspired  me  has  kept  me  from  farther  degradation. 
Yes  !  I  confess  nry  weakness  ;  all  his  perfidy  and  wrongs  can- 
not efface  him  from  my  heart.  I  have  been  brought  up  to  love 
him  ;  I  have  no  other  idol :  I  know  him  to  be  base,  yet  I  cannot 
help  adoring  him.  I  am  content  to  mingle  among  the  hireling 
throng  that  administer  to  his  amusements,  that  I  may  still  hover 
about  him,  and  linger  in  those  halls  where  I  once  reigned  mis- 
tress. What  merit,  then,  have  I  in  assisting  your  escape?  I 
scarce  know  whether  I  am  acting  from  sympathy  and  a  desire 
to  rescue  another  victim  from  his  power;  or  jealousy,  and  an 
eagerness  to  remove  too  powerful  a  rival !  " 

While  she  was  yet  speaking,  the  sun  rose  in  all  its  splendor ; 
first  lighting  up  the  mountain  summits,  then  stealing  down 
height  by  height,  until  its  rays  gilded  the  domes  and  towers  of 
Granada,  which  they  could  partially  see  from  between  the  trees, 
below  them.  Just  then  the  heavy  tones  of  a  bell  came  sound- 
ing from  a  distance,  echoing,  in  sullen  clang,  along  the  moun- 
tain. Inez  turned  pale  at  the  sound.  She  knew  it  to  be  the 
great  bell  of  the  cathedral,  rung  at  sunrise  on  the  day  of  the 
auto  da  fe,  to  give  note  of  funeral  preparation.  Every  stroke 
heat  upon  her  heart,  and  inflicted  an  absolute,  corporeal  pang. 


148  BRACEBR1DGE  HALL. 

She  started  up  wildly.  "  Let  us  be  gone  ! "  cried  she ;  "  there 
is  not  a  moment  for  delay  !  ' ' 

"  Stop  !  "  exclaimed  the  other ;  "  yonder  are  horsemen  com- 
ing over  the  brow  of  that  distant  height ;  if  I  mistake  not,  Don 
Ambrosio  is  at  their  head.  — Alas  !  'tis  he  !  we  are  lost.  Hold  ! " 
continued  she  ;  "  give  me  your  scarf  and  veil ;  wrap  yourself  in 
this  mantilla.  I  will  fly  up  yon  footpath  that  leads  to  the 
heights.  I  will  let  the  veil  flutter  as  I  ascend ;  perhaps  they 
may  mistake  me  for  you,  and  they  must  dismount  to  follow  me. 
Do  you  hasten  forward :  you  will  soon  reach  the  main  road. 
You  have  jewels  on  your  fingers :  bribe  the  first  muleteer 
you  meet,  to  assist  you  on  your  way." 

All  this  was  said  with  hurried  and  breathless  rapidity.  The 
exchange  of  garments  was  made  in  an  instant.  The  girl  darted 
up  the  mountain-path,  her  white  veil  fluttering  among  the  dark 
shrubbery,  while  Inez,  inspired  with  new  strength,  or  rather 
new  terror,  flew  to  the  road,  and  trusted  to  Providence  to  guide 
her  tottering  steps  to  Granada. 

All  Granada  was  in  agitation  on  the  morning  of  this  dis- 
mal day.  The  heavy  bell  of  the  cathedral  continued  to 
utter  its  clanging  tones,  that  pervaded  every  part  of  the  city, 
summoning  all  persons  to  the  tremendous  spectacle  about  to 
be  exhibited.  The  streets  through  which  the  procession  was  to 
pass  were  crowded  with  the  populace.  The  windows,  the  roofs, 
every  place  that  could  admit  a  face  or  a  foothold,  were  alive 
with  spectators.  In  the  great  square,  a  spacious  scaffolding, 
like  an  amphitheatre,  was  erected,  where  the  sentences  of  the 
prisoners  were  to  be  read,  and  the  sermon  of  faith  to  be 
preached ;  and  close  by  were  the  stakes  prepared,  where  the 
condemned  were  to  be  burnt  to  death.  Seats  were  arranged 
for  the  great,  the  gay,  the  beautiful ;  for  such  is  the  horrible 
curiosity  of  human  nature,  that  this  cruel  sacrifice  was  attended 
with  more  eagerness  than  a  theatre,  or  even  a  bull- feast. 

As  the  day  advanced,  the  scaffolds  and  balconies  were  filled 
with  expecting  multitudes ;  the  sun  shone  brightly  upon  fail- 
faces  and  gallant  dresses ;  one  would  have  thought  it  some 
scene  of  elegant  festivity,  instead  of  an  exhibition  of  human 
agony  and  death.  But  what  a  different  spectacle  and  ceremony 
was  this,  from  those  which  Granada  exhibited  in  the  days  of 
her  Moorish  splendor!  "Her  galas,  her  tournaments,  her 
sports  of  the  ring,  her  fetes  of  St.  John,  her  music,  her  Zara- 
bras,  and  admirable  tilts  of  canes !  Her  serenades,  her  con- 
certs, her  songs  in  Generaliffe !  The  costly  liveries  of  tue 
Abencerrages,  their  exquisite  inventions,  the  skill  and  valor 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  149 

of  the  Alabaces,  the  superb  dresses  of  the  Zegries,  Mazas,  and 
Gomeles  !  "  l  —  All  these  were  at  an  end.  The  days  of  chivalry 
were  over.  Instead  of  the  prancing  cavalcade,  with  neighing 
steed  and  lively  trumpet ;  with  burnished  lance,  and  helm,  and 
buckler ;  with  rich  confusion  of  plume,  and  scarf,  and  banner, 
where  purple,  and  scarlet,  and  green,  and  orange,  and  every  gay 
color,  were  mingled  with  cloth  of  gold  and  fair  embroidery ; 
instead  of  this,  crept  on  the  gloomy  pageant  of  superstition,  in 
cowl  and  sackcloth ;  with  cross  and  coffin,  and  frightful  sym- 
bols of  human  suffering.  In  place  of  the  frank,  hardy  knight, 
open  and  brave,  with  his  lady's  favor  in  his  casque,  and 
amorous  motto  on  his  shield,  looking,  by  gallant  deeds,  to  win 
the  smile  of  beauty,  came  the  shaven,  unmanly  monk,  with 
downcast  eyes,  and  head  and  heart  bleached  in  the  cold  cloister, 
secretly  exulting  in  this  bigot  triumph. 

The  sound  of  the  bells  gave  notice  that  the  dismal  procession 
was  advancing.  It  passed  slowly  through  the  principal  streets 
of  the  city,  bearing  iu  advance  the  awful  banner  of  the  Holy 
Office.  The  prisoners  walked  singly,  attended  by  confessors, 
and  guarded  by  familiars  of  the  inquisition.  They  were  clad 
in  different  garments,  according  to  the  nature  of  their  punish 
ments ;  those  who  were  to  suffer  death  wore  the  hideous  83* 
marra,  painted  with  flames  and  demons.  The  procession  was 
swelled  by  choirs  of  boys,  different  religious  orders  and  public 
dignitaries,  and  above  all,  by  the  fathers  of  the  faith,  moving 
"with  slow  pace,  and  profound  gravity,  truly  triumphing  as 
becomes  the  principal  generals  of  that  great  victory."  2 

As  the  sacred  banner  of  the  inquisition  advanced,  the  count- 
less throng  sunk  on  their  knees  before  it ;  they  bowed  their 
faces  to  the  very  earth  as  it  passed,  and  then  slowly  rose  again, 
like  a  great  undulating  billow.  A  murmur  of  tongues  prevailed 
as  the  prisoners  approached,  and  eager  eyes  were  strained,  and 
fingers  pointed,  to  distinguish  the  different  orders  of  penitents, 
whose  habits  denoted  the  degree  of  punishment  they  were  to 
undergo.  But  as  those  drew  near  whose  frightful  garb  marked 
them  as  destined  to  the  flames,  the  noise  of  the  rabble  subsided  ; 
they  seemed  almost  to  hold  in  their  breaths ;  filled  with  that 
strange  and  dismal  interest  with  which  we  contemplate  a  human 
being  on  the  verge  of  suffering  and  death. 

It  is  an  awful  thing — a  voiceless,  noiseless  multitude  !  The 
hushed  and  gazing  stillness  of  the  surrounding  thousands, 
heaped  on  walls,  and  gates,  and  roofs,  and  hanging,  as  it  were, 

1  Rodd'B  Civil  Ware  of  Orw»»d».  z  Gousalvim,  p.  136. 


160  BltACEBRlDGE  HALL. 

in  clusters,  heightened  the  effect  of  the  pageant  that  moved 
drearily  on  The  low  murmuring  of  the  priests  could  now  be 
heard  in  pra}-er  and  exhortation,  with  the  faint  responses  of 
the  prisoners,  and  now  and  then  the  voices  of  the  choir  at  a 
distance,  chanting  the  litanies  of  the  saints. 

The  faces  of  the  prisoners  were  ghastly  and  disconsolate. 
Even  those  who  had  been  pardoned,  and  wore  the  Sanbeuito, 
or  penitential  garment,  bore  traces  of  the  horrors  they  had 
undergone.  Some  were  feeble  and  tottering,  from  long  con- 
finement ;  some  crippled  and  distorted  by  various  tortures ; 
every  countenance  was  a  dismal  page,  on  which  might  be  read 
the  secrets  of  their  prison-house.  But  in  the  looks  of  those 
condemned  to  death,  there  was  something  fierce  and  eager. 
They  seemed  men  harrowed  up  by  the  past,  and  desperate  as 
to  the  future.  They  were  anticipating,  with  spirits  fevered  by 
despair,  and  fixed  and  clinched  determination,  the  vehement 
struggle  with  agony  and  death  they  were  shortly  to  under- 
go. Some  cast  now  and  then  a  wild  and  anguished  look 
about  them,  upon  the  shining  day ;  the  "  sun-bright  palaces," 
the  gay,  the  beautiful  world,  which  they  were  soon  to  quit  for- 
ever ;  or  a  glance  of  sudden  indignation  at  the  thronging  thou- 
sands, happy  in  liberty  and  life,  who  seemed,  in  contemplating 
their  frightful  situation,  to  exult  in  their  own  comparative  se- 
curity. 

One  among  the  condemned,  however,  was  an  exception  to 
these  remarks.  It  was  an  aged  man,  somewhat  bowed  down, 
with  a  serene,  though  dejected  countenance,  and  a  beaming, 
melancholy  eye.  It  was  the  alchemist.  The  populace  looked 
upon  him  with  a  degree  of  compassion,  which  the}*  were  not 
prone  to  feel  towards  criminals  condemned  by  the  inquisition ; 
but  when  they  were  told  that  he  was  convicted  of  the  crime  of 
magic,  they  drew  back  with  awe  and  abhorrence. 

The  procession  had  reached  the  grand  square.  The  first  part 
had  already  mounted  the  scaffolding,  and  the  condemned  were 
approaching.  The  press  of  the  populace  became  excessive, 
and  was  repelled,  as  it  were,  in  billows  by  the  guards.  Just 
as  the  condemned  were  entering  the  square,  a  shrieking  was 
heard  among  the  crowd.  A  female,  pale,  frantic,  dishevelled, 
was  seen  struggling  through  the  multitude.  "My  father!  my 
father!"  was  all  the  cry  she  uttered,  but  it  thrilled  through 
every  heart.  The  crowd  instinctively  drew  back,  and  made 
way  for  her  as  she  advanced. 

The  poor  aichemist  had  made  his  peace  with  Heaven,  and, 
by  a  hard  struggle,  had  closed  his  heart  upon  the  world,  when 


THE   STUDENT   OF  SALAMANCA.  151 

the  voice  of  his  child  called  him  once  more  back  to  worldly 
thought  and  agony.  He  turned  towards  the  well-known  voice ; 
his  knees  smote  together;  he  endeavored  to  reach  forth  his 
pinioned  arms,  and  felt  himself  clasped  in  the  embraces  of  his 
child.  The  emotions  of  both  were  too  agonizing  for  utterance. 
Convulsive  sobs  and  broken  exclamations,  and  embraces  more 
of  anguish  than  tenderness,  were  all  that  passed  between  them. 
The  procession  was  interrupted  for  a  moment.  The  astonished 
monks  and  familiars  were  filled  with  involuntary  respect,  at 
this  agony  of  natural  affection.  Ejaculations  of  pity  broke 
from  the  crowd,  touched  by  the  filial  piety,  the  extraordinary 
and  hopeless  anguish,  of  so  young  and  beautiful  a  being. 

Every  attempt  to  soothe  her,  and  prevail  on  her  to  retire, 
was  unheeded  ;  at  length  they  endeavored  to  separate  her  from 
her  father  by  force.  The  movement  roused  her  from  her  tem- 
porary abandonment.  "With  a  sudden  paroxysm  of  fury,  she 
snatched  a  sword  from  one  of  the  familiars.  Her  late  pale 
countenance  was  flushed  wilh  rage,  and  fire  flashed  from  her 
once  soft  and  languishing  eyes.  The  guards  shrunk  back  with 
awe.  There  was  something  in  this  filial  frenzy,  this  feminine 
tenderness  wrought  up  to  desperation,  that  touched  even  their 
hardened  hearts.  They  endeavored  to  pacify  her,  but  in  vain. 
Her  eye  was  eager  and  quick,  as  the  she-wolf's  guarding  her 
young.  With  one  arm  she  pressed  her  father  to  her  bosom, 
with  the  other  she  menaced  every  one  that  approached. 

The  patience  of  the  guards  was  soon  exhausted.  They  had 
held  back  in  awe,  but  not  in  fear.  With  all  her  desperation 
the  weapon  was  soon  wrested  from  her  feeble  hand,  and  she 
was  borne  shrieking  and  struggling  among  the  crowd.  The 
rabble  murmured  compassion  ;  but  such  was  the  dread  inspired 
by  the  inquisition,  that  no  one  attempted  to  interfere. 

The  procession  again  resumed  its  march.  Inez  was  ineffec- 
tually struggling  to  release  herself  from  the  hands  of  the  famil- 
iars that  detained  her,  when  suddenly  she  saw  Don  Ambrosio 
before  her.  "  Wretched  girl ! "  exclaimed  he  with  fury,  "  why 
have  you  fled  from  your  friends?  Deliver  her,"  said  he  to  the 
familiars,  "  to  my  domestics  ;  she  is  under  my  protection." 

His  creatures  advanced  to  seize  her.  "Oh,  no!  oh,  no!" 
cried  she,  with  new  terrors,  and  clinging  to  the  familiars,  "  I 
have  fled  from  no  friends.  He  is  not  my  protector!  He  is 
the  murderer  of  my  father !  " 

The  familiars  were  perplexed ;  the  crowd  pressed  on,  with 
eager  curiosity.  "  Stand  off !  "  cried  the  fiery  Ambrosio,  dash- 
ing the  throng  from  around  him.  Then  turning  to  the  familiars, 


152  BEACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

with  sudden  moderation,  "My  friends,"  said  he,  "  deliver  this 
poor  girl  to  me.  Her  distress  has  turned  her  brain  ;  she  has 
escaped  from  her  friends  and  protectors  this  morning ;  but  a 
little  quiet  and  kind  treatment  will  restore  her  to  tranquillity." 

"I  am  not  mad!  I  am  not  mad!"  cried  she,  vehemently. 
"  Oh,  save  me  !  —  save  me  from  these  men  !  I  have  no  protector 
on  earth  but  my  father,  and  him  they  are  murdering !  " 

The  familiars  shook  their  heads ;  her  wildness  corroborated 
the  assertions  of  Don  Ambrosio,  and  his  apparent1  rank  com- 
manded respect  and  belief.  They  relinquished  their  charge  to 
him,  and  he  was  consigning  the  struggling  Inez  to  his  creatures. 

"  Let  go  your  hold,  villain  !  "  cried  a  voice  from  among  the 
crowd  —  and  Antonio  was  seen  eagerly  tearing  his  way  through 
the  press  of  people. 

"  Seize  him  !  seize  him  ! "  cried  Don  Ambrosio  to  the  familiars, 
"  'tis  an  accomplice  of  the  sorcerer's." 

"  Liar !  "  retorted  Antonio,  as  he  thrust  the  mob  to  the  right 
and  left,  and  forced  himself  to  the  spot. 

The  sword  of  Don  Ambrosio  flashed  in  an  instant  from  the 
scabbard ;  the  student  was  anned,  and  equally  alert.  There 
was  a  fierce  clash  of  weapons :  the  crowd  made  way  for  them 
as  they  fought,  and  closed  again,  so  as  to  hide  them  from  the 
view  of  Inez.  All  was  tumult  and  confusion  for  a  moment ; 
when  there  was  a  kind  of  shout  from  the  spectators,  and  the 
mob  again  opening,  she  beheld,  as  she  thought,  Antonio  welter- 
ing in  his  blood. 

This  new  shock  was  too  great  for  her  already  overstrained 
intellects.  A  giddiness  seized  upon  her ;  every  thing  seemed  to 
whirl  before  her  eyes ;  she  gasped  some  incoherent  words,  and 
sunk  senseless  upon  the  ground. 

Days  —  weeks  elapsed,  before  Inez  returned  to  consciousness. 
At  length  she  opened  her  eyes,  as  if  out  of  a  troubled  sleep. 
8he  was  lying  upon  a  magnificent  bed,  in  a  chamber  richly 
furnished  with  pier-glasses,  and  massive  tables  inlaid  with 
silver,  of  exquisite  workmanship.  The  walls  were  covered  with 
tapestry ;  the  cornices  richly  gilded ;  through  the  door,  which 
stood  open,  she  perceived  a  superb  saloon,  with  statues  and 
crystal  lustres,  and  a  magnificent  suite  of  apartments  beyond. 
The  casements  of  the  room  were  open  to  admit  the  soft  breath 
of  summer,  which  stole  in,  laden  with  perfumes  from  a 
neighboring  garden ;  whence,  also,  the  refreshing  sound  of  foun- 
tains and  the  sweet  notes  of  birds  came  in  mingled  music  to  her 
ear. 

Female  attendants  were  moving,  with  noiseless  step,  about 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  loJ 

the  chamber ;  but  she  feared  to  address  them.  She  doubted 
whether  this  were  not  all  delusion,  or  whether  she  was  not  still 
in  the  palace  of  Don  Ambrosio,  and  that  her  escape,  and  all  its 
circumstances,  had  not  been  but  a  feverish  dream.  She  closed 
her  eyes  again,  endeavoring  to  recall  the  past,  and  to  sepa- 
rate the  real  from  the  imaginary.  The  last  scenes  of  con- 
sciousness, however,  rushed  too  forcibly,  with  all  their  horrors, 
to  her  mind  to  be  doubted,  and  she  turned  shuddering  from 
the  recollection,  to  gaze  once  more  on  the  quiet  and  serene 
magnificence  around  her.  As  she  again  opened  her  eyes,  they 
rested  on  an  object  that  at  once  dispelled  every  alarm.  At  the 
head  of  her  bed  sat  a  venerable  form,  watching  over  her  with 
a  look  of  fond  anxiety — it  was  her  father! 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  scene  that  ensued  ;  nor  the 
moments  of  rapture  which  more  than  repaid  all  the  sufferings 
her  affectionate  heart  had  undergone.  As  soon  as  their  feel- 
ings had  become  more  calm,  the  alchemist  stepped  out  of  the 
room  to  introduce  a  stranger,  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for 
his  life  and  liberty.  He  returned,  leading  in  Antonio,  no 
longer  in  his  poor  scholar's  garb,  but  in  the  rich  dress  of  a 
nobleman. 

The  feelings  of  Inez  were  almost  overpowered  by  these  sud- 
den reverses,  and  it  was  some  time  before  she  was  sufficiently 
composed  to  comprehend  the  explanation  of  this  seeming 
romance. 

It  appeared  that  the  lover,  who  had  sought  her  affections  in 
the  lowly  guise  of  a  student,  was  only  son  and  heir  of  a  power- 
ful grandee  of  Valencia.  He  had  been  placed  at  the  university 
of  Salamanca ;  but  a  lively  curiosity,  and  an  eagerness  for 
adventure,  had  induced  him  to  abandon  the  university,  with- 
out his  father's  consent,  and  to  visit  various  parts  of  Spain. 
His  rambling  inclination  satisfied,  he  had  remained  incognito 
for  a  time  at  Granada,  until,  by  farther  study  and  self -regula- 
tion, he  could  prepare  himself  to  return  home  with  credit,  and 
atone  for  his  transgressions  against  paternal  authority. 

How  hard  he  had  studied,  does  not  remain  on  record.  All 
that  we  know  is  his  romantic  adventure  of  the  tower.  It  was 
at  first  a  mere  youthful  caprice,  excited  by  a  glimpse  of  a 
beautiful  face.  In  becoming  a  disciple  of  the  alchemist,  he 
probably  thought  of  nothing  more  than  pursuing  a  light  love 
affair.  Farther  acquaintance,  however,  had  completely  fixed 
his  affections  ;  and  he  had  determined  to  conduct  Inez  and  her 
fr.ther  to  Valencia,  and  to  trust  to  her  merits  to  secure  hia 
v'ather's  consent  to  their  union. 


154  BEACEBEIDGE   HALL. 

In  the  mean  time,  he  had  been  traced  to  his  concealment. 
His  father  had  received  intelligence  of  his  being  entangled  in 
the  snares  of  a  mysterious  adventurer  and  his  daughter,  and 
likely  to  become  the  dupe  of  the  fascinations  of  the  latter. 
Trusty  emissaries  had  been  despatched  to  seize  upon  him  by 
main  force,  and  convey  him  without  delay  to  the  paternal  home. 

What  eloquence  he  had  used  with  his  father,  to  convince  him 
of  the  innocence,  the  honor,  and  the  high  descent  of  the  alche- 
mist, and  of  the  exalted  worth  of  his  daughter,  does  not  appear. 
All  that  we  know  is,  that  the  father,  though  a  very  passionate, 
was  a  very  reasonable  man,  as  appears  by  his  consenting  that 
his  son  should  return  to  Granada,  and  conduct  Inez  as  his  affi- 
anced bride  to  Valencia. 

Away,  then,  Don  Antonio  hurried  back,  full  of  joyous  antici- 
pations. He  still  forbore  to  throw  off  his  disguise,  fondly  pic- 
turing to  himself  what  would  be  the  surprise  of  Inez,  when, 
having  won  her  heart  and  hand  as  a  poor  wandering  scholar, 
he  should  raise  her  and  her  father  at  once  to  opulence  and  splen- 
dor. 

On  his  arrival  he  had  been  shocked  at  finding  the  tower  de- 
serted of  its  inhabitants.  In  vain  he  sought  for  intelligence 
concerning  them ;  a  mystery  hung  over  their  disappearance 
which  he  could  not  penetrate,  until  he  was  thunderstruck,  on 
accidentally  reading  a  list  of  the  prisoners  at  the  impending 
auto  da  fe",  to  find  the  name  of  his  venerable  master  among  the 
condemned. 

It  was  the  very  morning  of  the  execution.  The  procession 
was  already  on  its  way  to  the  grand  square.  Not  a  moment 
was  to  be  lost.  The  grand  inquisitor  was  a  relation  of  Don 
Antonio,  though  they  had  never  met.  His  first  impulse  was  to 
make  himself  known ;  to  exert  all  his  family  influence,  the 
weight  of  his  name,  and  the  power  of  his  eloquence,  in  vindica- 
tion of  the  alchemist.  But  the  grand  inquisitor  was  already 
proceeding,  in  all  his  pomp,  to  the  place  where  the  fatal  cere- 
mony was  to  be  performed.  How  was  he  to  be  approached? 
Antonio  threw  himself  into  the  crowd,  in  a  fever  of  anxiety,  and 
was  forcing  his  way  to  the  scene  of  horror,  where  he  arrived 
just  in  time  to  rescue  Inez,  as  has  been  mentioned. 

It  was  Don  Ambrosio  that  fell  in  the  contest.  Being  des- 
perately wounded,  and  thinking  his  end  approaching,  he  had 
confessed  to  an  attending  father  of  the  inquisition,  that  he  was 
the  sole  cause  of  the  alchemist's  condemnation,  and  that  the 
evidence  on  which  it  was  grounded  was  altogether  false.  The 
testimony  of  Don  Antonio  came  in  corroboration  of  this  avow- 


THE    STUDENT    OF    SALAMANCA.  155 

al ;  and  his  relationship  to  the  grand  inquisitor  had,  in  all  proba- 
bility,  its  proper  weight.  Thus  was  the  poor  alchemist  snatched, 
in  a  manner,  from  the  very  flames ;  and  so  great  had  been  the 
sympathy  awakened  in  his  case,  that  for  once  a  populace 
rejoiced  at  being  disappointed  of  an  execution. 

The  residue  of  the  story  may  readily  be  imagined,  by  every 
one  versed  in  this  valuable  kind  of  history.  Don  Antonio 
espoused  the  lovely  Inez,  and  took  her  and  her  father  with  him 
to  Valencia.  As  she  had  been  a  loving  and  dutiful  daughter, 
so  she  proved  a  true  and  tender  wife.  It  was  not  long  before 
Don  Antonio  succeeded  to  his  father's  titles  and  estates,  and 
he  and  his  fair  spouse  were  renowned  for  being  the  handsomest 
and  happiest  couple  in  all  Valencia. 

As  to  Don  Ambrosio,  he  partially  recovered  to  the  enjoyment 
of  a  broken  constitution  and  a  blasted  name,  and  hid  his  re- 
morse and  disgraces  in  a  convent ;  while  the  poor  victim  of  his 
arts,  who  had  assisted  Inez  to  her  escape,  unable  to  conquer 
the  early  passion  that  he  had  awakened  in  her  bosom,  though 
convinced  of  the  baseness  of  the  object,  retired  from  the  world, 
and  became  a  humble  sister  in  a  nunnery. 

The  worthy  alchemist  took  up  his  abode  with  his  children. 
A  pavilion,  in  the  garden  of  their  palace,  was  assigned  to  him 
as  a  laboratory,  where  he  resumed  his  researches  with  reno- 
vated ardor,  after  the  grand  secret.  He  was  now  and  then 
assisted  by  his  son-in-law  ;  but  the  latter  slackened  grievously 
in  his  zeal  and  diligence,  after  marriage.  Still  he  would  listen 
with  profound  gravity  and  attention  to  the  old  man's  rhapso- 
dies, and  his  quotations  from  Paracelsus,  Sandivogius,  and 
Pietro  D'Abano,  which  daily  grew  longer  and  longer.  In  this 
way  the  good  alchemist  lived  on  quietly  and  comfortably,  to 
what  is  called  a  good  old  age,  that  is  to  say,  an  age  that  is 
good  for  nothing ;  and  unfortunately  for  mankind,  was  hurried 
out  of  life  in  his  ninetieth  year,  just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of 
discovering  the  Philosopher's  Stone. 


Such  was  the  story  of  the  captain's  friend,  with  which  we 
whiled  away  the  morning.  The  captain  was,  every  now  and 
then,  interrupted  by  questions  and  remarks,  which  I  have  not 
mentioned,  lest  I  should  break  the  continuity  of  the  tale.  He 
was  a  little  disturbed,  also,  once  or  twice,  b3"  the  general,  who 
fell  asleep,  and  breathed  rather  hard,  to  the  great  horror  and 
annoyance  of  Lady  Lillycraft.  In  a  long  and  tender  love 
scene;  also,  which  was  particularly  to  her  ladyship's  taste,  the 


156  BEACEBRIDGE   HALL. 

unlucky  general,  having  his  head  a  little  sunk  upon  his  breast, 
kept  making  a  sound  at  regular  intervals,  very  much  like  the 
word  pith,  long  drawn  out.  At  length  he  made  an  odd  abrupt 
guttural  sound,  that  suddenly  awoke  him ;  he  hemmed,  looked 
about  with  a  slight  degree  of  consternation,  and  then  began  to 
play  with  her  ladyship's  work-bag,  which,  however,  she  rather 
pettishly  withdrew.  The  steady  sound  of  the  captain's  voice 
was  still  too  potent  a  soporific  for  the  poor  general ;  he  kept 
gleaming  up  and  sinking  in  the  socket,  until  the  cessation  of 
the  tale  again  roused  him,  when  he  started  awake,  put  his  foot 
down  upon  Lady  Lillycraft's  cur,  the  sleeping  Beauty,  which 
yelped,  seized  him  by  the  leg,  and,  in  a  moment,  the  whole 
library  resounded  with  yelpings  and  exclamations.  Never  did 
a  man  more  completely  mar  his  fortunes  while  he  was  asleep. 
Silence  being  at  length  restored,  the  company  expressed  their 
thanks  to  the  captain,  and  gave  various  opinions  of  the  story. 
The  parson's  mind,  I  found,  had  been  continually  running  upon 
the  leaden  manuscripts,  mentioned  in  the  beginning,  as  dug  up 
at  Granada,  and  he  put  several  eager  questions  to  the  captain 
on  the  subject.  The  general  could  not  well  make  out  the  drift 
of  the  story,  but  thought  it  a  little  confused.  "I  am  glad, 
however,"  said  he,  "  that  they  burnt  the  old  chap  in  the  tower; 
I  have  no  doubt  he  was  a  notorious  impostor." 


ENGLISH  COUNTRY  GENTLEMEN. 

His  certain  life,  that  never  can  deceive  him, 

IB  full  of  thousand  sweets,  and  rich  content; 
The  smooth-leaved  beeches  in  the  field  receive  him 

With  coolest  shade,  till  noontide's  heat  be  spent. 
His  life  is  neither  tost  in  boisterous  seaa 

Or  the  vexatious  world ;  or  lost  in  slothful  ease, 
Pleased  and  full  blest  he  lives,  when  he  his  God  can  please. 

—  PHINEAS  FLETCHEH. 

I  TAKE  great  pleasure  in  accompanying  the  Squire  in  his  per- 
ambulations about  his  estate,  in  which  he  is  often  attended  by 
a  kind  of  cabinet  council.  His  prime  minister,  the  steward,  is 
a  very  worthy  and  honest  old  man,  who  assumes  a  right  of 
way ;  that  is  to  say,  a  right  to  have  his  own  way,  from  having 
lived  time  out  of  mind  on  the  place.  He  loves  the  estate  even 
better  than  he  does  the  Squire  ;  and  thwarts  the  latter  sadly  in 


ENGLISH    COUNTRY    GENTLEMEN.  157 

many  of  his  projects  of  improvement,  being  a  little  prone  to  dis- 
approve of  every  plan  that  does  not  originate  with  himself. 

In  the  course  of  one  of  these  perambulations,  I  have  .known 
the  Squire  to  point  out  some  important  alteration  whicli  he  was 
contemplating,  in  the  disposition  or  cultivation  of  the  grounds  ; 
this,  of  course,  would  be  opposed  by  the  steward,  and  a  long 
argument  would  ensue,  over  a  stile,  or  on  a  rising  piece  of 
ground,  until  the  Squire,  who  has  a  high  opiuion  of  the  other's 
ability  and  integrity,  would  be  fain  to  give  up  the  point.  This 
concession,  I  observed,  would  immediately  mollify  the  old  man  ; 
and,  after  walking  over  a  field  or  two  in  silence,  with  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  chewing  the  cud  of  reflection,  he  would  sud- 
denly turn  to  the  Squire,  and  observe,  that  "  he  had  been  turn- 
ing the  matter  over  in  his  mind,  and,  upon  the  whole,  he  be- 
lieved he  would  take  his  honor's  advice." l 

Christy,  the  huntsman,  is  another  of  the  Squire's  occasional 
attendants,  to  whom  he  continually  refers  in  all  matters  of  local 
history,  as  to  a  chronicle  of  the  estate,  having,  in  a  manner, 
been  acquainted  with  many  of  the  trees,  from  the  very  time  that 
they  were  acorns.  Old  Nimrod,  as  has  been  shown,  is  rather 
pragmatical  in  those  points  of  knowledge  on  which  he  values 
himself ;  but  the  Squire  rarely  contradicts  him,  and  is,  in  fact, 
one  of  the  most  indulgent  potentates  that  was  ever  henpecked 
by  his  ministry. 

He  often  laughs  about  it  himself,  and  evidently  yields  to 
these  old  men  more  from  the  bent  of  his  own  humor  than  from 
any  want  of  proper  authority.  He  likes  this  honest  independ- 
ence of  old  age,  and  is  well  aware  that  these  trusty  followers 
love  anil  honor  him  in  their  hearts.  He  is  perfectly  at  ease 
about  bis  own  dignity,  and  the  respect  of  those  around  him ; 
nothing  disgusts  him  sooner  than  any  appearance  of  fawning  or 
sycophancy. 

I  really  have  seen  no  display  of  royal  state,  that  could  com- 
pare with  one  of  the  Squire's  progresses  about  his  paternal  fields 
and  through  his  hereditary  woodlands,  with  several  of  these 
faithful  adherents  about  him,  and  followed  by  a  body-guard  of 
dogs.  He  encourages  a  frankness  and  manliness  of  deport- 
ment among  his  dependants,  and  is  the  personal  friend  of  his 
tenants  ;  inquiring  into  their  concerns,  and  assisting  them  in 
times  of  difficulty  and  hardship.  This  has  rendered  him  one  of 
the  most  popular,  and  of  course  one  of  the  happiest,  of  land- 
lords. 

Indeed,  I  do  not  know  a  more  enviable  condition  of  life,  tlnn 
that  of  an  English  gentleman,  of  sound  judgment  and  good 

1  See  note,  p.  310. 


158  BRACEBRIDGE    IIALL. 

feelings,  who  passes  the  greater  part  of  his  time  on  an  heredi- 
tary estate  in  the  country.  From  the  excellence  of  the  roads, 
and  the  rapidity  and  exactness  of  public  conveyances,  he  is 
enabled  to  command  all  the  comforts  and  conveniences,  all  the 
intelligence  and  novelties  of  the  capital,  while  he  is  removed 
>.  from  its  hurry  and  distraction.  He  has  ample  means  of  occu- 
pation and  amusement,  within  his  own  domains ;  he  may  diver- 
sify his  time,  by  rural  occupations,  by  rural  sports,  by  study, 
and  by  the  delights  of  friendly  society  collected  within  his  own 
hospitable  halls. 

Or,  if  his  views  and  feelings  are  of  a  more  extensive  and 
liberal  nature,  he  has  it  greatly  in  his  power  to  do  good,  and 
to  have  that  good  immediately  reflected  back  upon  himself. 
He  can  render  essential  services  to  his  country,  by  assisting 
in  the  disinterested  administration  of  the  laws ;  by  watching 
over  the  opinions  and  principles  of  the  lower  orders  around 
him;  by  diffusing  among  them  those  lights  important  to  their 
welfare ;  by  mingling  frankly  among  them,  gaining  their  confi- 
dence, becoming  the  immediate  auditor  of  their  complaints, 
informing  himself  of  their  wants,  making  himself  a  channel 
through  which  their  grievances  may  be  quietly  communi- 
cated to  the  proper  sources  of  mitigation  and  relief;  or  by 
becoming,  if  need  be,  the  intrepid  and  incorruptible  guard- 
ian of  their  liberties  —  the  enlightened  champion  of  their 
rights. 

All  this  can  be  done  without  any  sacrifice  of  personal 
dignity,  without  any  degrading  arts  of  popularity,  without 
any  truckling  to  vulgar  prejudices  or  concurrence  in  vulgar 
clamor;  but  by  the  steady  influence  of  sincere  and  friendly 
counsel,  of  fair,  upright,  and  generous  deportment.  Whatever 
may  be  said  of  English  mobs  and  English  demagogues,  I 
have  never  met  with  a  people  more  open  to  reason,  more 
considerate  in  their  tempers,  more  tractable  by  argument 
in  the  roughest  times,  than  the  English.  They  are  remarkably 
quick  at  discerning  and  appreciating  whatever  is  manly  and 
honorable.  They  are,  by  nature  and  habit,  methodical  and 
orderly ;  and  they  feel  the  value  of  all  that  is  regular  and  re- 
spectable. They  may  occasionally  be  deceived  by  sophistry, 
and  excited  into  turbulence  by  public  distresses  and  the  mis- 
representations of  designing  men;  but  open  their  eyej^and 
they  will  eventually  rajly  round  the  landmarks  of  steatlytrjhh 
and  deliberate  gOoH  se^se.  They  are  fond  of  establis-lud 
customs  and  long-established  names ;  and  that  love  of  order 
and  quiet  which  characterizes  the  nation,  gives  a  vast  influence 


ENGLISH   COUNTRY  GENTLEMEN.  159 

to  the  descendants  of  the  old  families,  whose  forefathers  have 
been  lords  of  the  soil  from  time  immemorial. 

It  is  when  the  rich  and  well-educated  and  highly-privileged 
classes  neglect  their  duties,  when  they  neglect  to  study  the  in- 
terests, and  conciliate  the  affections,  and  instruct  the  opinions, 
and  champion  the  rights  of  the  people,  that  the  latter  become 
discontented  and  turbulent,  and  fall  into  the  hands  of  dema- 
gogues :  the  demagogue  always  steps  in,  where  the  patriot  is 
wanting.  There  is  a  common  high-handed  cant  among  the 
high-feeding,  and,  as  they  fancy  themselves,  high-minded  men, 
about  putting  down  the  mob ;  but  all  true  physicians  know  that 
it  is  better  to  sweeten  the  blood  than  attack  the  tumor,  to 
apply  the  emollient  rather  than  the  cautery.  It  is  absurd,  in 
a  country  like  England,  where  there  is  so  much  freedom,  and 
such  a  jealousy  of  right,  for  any  man  to  assume  an  aristo- 
cratical  tone,  and  to  talk  superciliously  of  the  common  people. 
There  is  no  rank  that  makes  him  independent  of  the  opinions 
and  affections  of  his  fellow-men ;  there  is  no  rank  nor  distinc- 
tion that  severs  him  from  his  fellow-subjects ;  and  if,  by  any 
gradual  neglect  or  assumption  on  the  one  side,  and  discontent 
and  jealousy  on  the  other,  the  orders  of  society  should  really « 
separate,  let  those  who  stand  on  the  eminence  beware  that  the 
chasm  is  not  mining  at 'their  feet.  The  orders  of  society,  in 
all  well-constituted  governments,  are  mutually  bound  together,  |  \ 
and  important  to  each  other ;  there  can  be  no  such  thing  in  a 
free  government  as  a  vacuum ;  and  whenever  one  is  likely  to 
take  place,  by  the  drawing  off  of  the  rich  and  intelligent  from 
the  poor,  the  bad  passions  of  society  will  rush  in  to  fill  up  the 
space,  and  rend  the  whole  asunder. 

Though  born  aad  brought  up  in  a  republic,  and  more  and 
more  confirmed  in  republican  principles  by  every  year's  obser- 
vation and  experience,  I  am  not  insensible  to  the  excellence 
that  may  exist  in  other  forms  of  government,  nor  to  t£je  fact 
that  they  may  be  more  suitable  to  the  situation  and  circum- 
stances of  the  countries  in  which  they  exist :  I  have  endeavored 
rather  to  look  at  them  as  they  are,  and  to  observe  how  they  are 
calculated  to  effect  the  end  which  they  propose.  Considering, 
therefore,  the  mixed  nature  of  the  government  of  this  country, 
and  its  representative  form,  I  have  looked  with  admiration  at 
the  manner  in  which  the  wealth  and  influence  and  intelligence 
were  spread  over  its  whole  surface  ;  not  as  in  some  monarchies, 
drained  from  the  country,  and  collected  m  towns  and  cities. 
I  have  considered  the  great  rural  establishments  of  the  nobility, 
and  the  lesser  establishments  of  the  gentry,  as  so  many  reser- 


160  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

voirs  of  wealth  and  intelligence  distributed  about  the  kingdom, 
apart  from  the  towns,  to  irrigate,  freshen,  and  fertilize  the 
surrounding  country.  I  have  looked  upon  them,  too,  as  the 
august  retreat  of  patriots  and  statesmen,  where,  in  the  enjoy - 
taent  of  honorable  independence  and  elegant  leisure,  they  might 
train  up  their  minds  to  appear  in  those  legislative  assemblies, 
whose  debates  and  decisions  form  the  study  and  precedents  of 
other  nations,  and  involve  the  interests  of  the  world. 

I  have  been  both  surprised  and  disappointed,  therefore,  at 
finding  that  on  this  subject  I  was  often  indulging  in  an  Utopian 
dream,  rather  than  a  well-founded  opinion.  I  have  been  con- 
cerned at  finding  that  these  fiue  estates  were  too  often  involved, 
and  mortgaged,  or  placed  in  the  hands  of  creditors,  and  the 
owners  exiled  from  their  paternal  lauds.  There  is  an  extrava- 
gance, I  am  told,  that  runs  parallel  with  wealth ;  a  lavish 
expenditure  among  the  great ;  a  senseless  competition  among 
the  aspiring ;  a  heedless,  joyless  dissipation  among  all  the 
upper  ranks,  that  often  beggars  even  these  splendid  establish- 
ments, breaks  down  the  pride  and  principles  of  their  possessors, 
and  makes  too  many  of  them  mere  place-hunters,  or  shifting 
absentees.  It  is  thus  that  so  many  are  thrown  into  the  hands 
of  government ;  and  a  court,  which  ought  to  be  the  most  pure 
and  honorable  in  Europe,  is  so  often  degraded  by  noble,  but 
importunate  time-servers.  It  is  thus,  too,  that  so  many  become 
exiles  from  their  native  land,  crowding  the  hotels  of  foreign 
countries,  and  expending  upon  thankless  strangers  the  wealth 
so  hardly  drained  from  their  laborious  peasantry.  I  have 
looked  upon  these  latter  with  a  mixture  of  censure  and  concern. 
Knowing  the  almost  bigoted  fondness  of  an  Englishman  for  his 
native  home,  I  can  conceive  what  must  be  their  compunction 
and  regret,  when,  amidst  the  sunburnt  plains  of  France,  they 
call  to  mind  the  green  fields  of  England ;  the  hereditary  groves 
which  they  have  abandoned ;  and  the  hospitable  roof  of  their 
fathers,  which  they  have  left  desolate,  or  to  be  inhabited  by 
strangers.  But  retrenchment  is  no  plea  for  abandonment  of 
country.  They  have  risen  with  the  prosperity  of  the  laud  ;  let 
them  abide  its  fluctuations,  and  conform  to  its  fortunes.  It  is 
not  for  the  rich  to  fly,  because  the  country  is  suffering :  let 
them  share,  in  their  relative  proportion,  the  common  lot ;  they 
owe  it  to  the  land  that  has  elevated  them  to  honor  and  afflu- 
ence. When  the  poor  have  to  diminish  their  scanty  morsels 
of  bread ;  when  they  have  to  compound  with  the  cravings  of 
nature,  and  study  with  how  little  they  can  do,  and  not  be 
starved  ;  it  is  not  then  for  the  rich  to  fly,  and  diminish  still 


ENGLISH  COUNTRY  GENTLEMEN.  161 

farther  the  resources  of  the  poor,  that  they  themselves  may 
live  in  splendor  in  a  cheaper  country.  Let  them  rather  retire 
to  their  estates,  and  there  practise  retrenchment.  Let  them 
return  to  that  noble  simplicity,  that  practical  good  sense,  that 
honest  pride,  which  form  the  foundation  of  true  English  char- 
acter, and  from  them  they  may  again  rear  the  edifice  of  fair 
and  honorable  prosperity. 

On  the  rural  habits  of  the  English  nobility  and  gentry,  on 
the  manner  in  which  they  discharge  their  duties  on  their  patri- 
monial possessions,  depend  greatly  the  virtue  and  welfare  of 
the  nation.  So  long  as  they  pass  the  greater  part  of  their  time 
in  the  quiet  and  purity  of  the  country  ;  surrounded  by  the  monu- 
ments of  their  illustrious  ancestors  ;  surrounded  by  every  thing 
that  can  inspire  generous  pride,  noble  emulation,  and  amiable 
and  magnanimous  sentiment ;  so  long  they  are  safe,  and  in  them 
the  nation  may  repose  its  interests  and  its  honor.  But  the  mo- 
ment that  they  become  the  servile  throngers  of  court  avenues,  and 
give  themselves  up  to  the  political  intrigues  and  heartless  dissipa- 
tions of  the  metropolis,  that  moment  they  lose  the  real  nobility 
of  their  natures,  and  become  the  mere  leeches  of  the  country. 

That  the  great  majority  of  nobility  and  gentry  in  England 
are  endowed  with  high  notions  of  honor  and  independence,  I 
thoroughly  believe.  They  have  evidenced  it  lately  on  very 
important  questions,  and  have  given  an  example  of  adherence 
to  principle,  in  preference  to  party  and  power,  that  must  have 
astonished  many  of  the  venal  and  obsequious  courts  of  Europe. 
Such  are  the  glorious  effects  of  freedom,  when  infused  into  a 
constitution.  But  it  seems  to  me,  that  they  are  apt  to  forget 
the  positive  nature  of  their  duties,  and  to  consider  their  emi- 
nent privileges  only  as  so  many  means  of  self-indulgence. 
They  should  recollect,  that  in  a  constitution  like  that  of  Eng- 
land, the  titled  orders  are  intended  to  be  as  useful  as  they  are 
ornamental,  and  it  is  their  virtues  alone  that  can  render  them 
both.  Their  duties  are  divided  between  the  sovereign  and 
the  subjects  ;  surrounding  and  giving  lustre  and  dignity  to  the 
throne,  and  at  the  same  time  tempering  and  mitigating  its 
rays,  until  they  are  transmitted  in  mild  and  genial  radiance  to 
the  people.  Born  to  leisure  and  opulence,  they  owe  the  exer- 
cise of  their  talents,  and  the  expenditure  of  their  wealth,  to 
their  native  country.  They  may  be  compared  to  the  clouds ; 
which,  being  drawn  up  by  the  sun,  and  elevated  in  the  heavens, 
reflect  and  magnify  his  splendor;  while  they  repay  the  earth, 
from  which  they  derive  their  sustenance,  by  returning  their 
treasures  to  its  bosom  in  fertilizing  showers. 


162  BBACEBE1DGE   HALL. 


A  BACHELOR'S  CONFESSIONS. 

"I'll  lire  a  private,  pensive  single  life." 

—  The  Collier  of  Croydon. 

I  WAS  sitting  in  my  room,  a  morning  or  two  since,  reading 
when  some  one  tapped  at  the  door,  and  Master  Simon  entered. 
He  had  an  unusually  fresh  appearance ;  he  wore  a  bright  green 
riding-coat,  with  a  bunch  of  violets  in  the  button-hole,  and 
had  the  air  of  an  old  bachelor  trying  to  rejuvenate  himself.  He 
had  not,  however,  his  usual  briskness  and  vivacity  ;  but  loitered 
about  the  room  with  somewhat  of  absence  of  manner,  humming 
the  old  song  —  "Go,  lovely  rose,  tell  her  that  wastes  her  time 
and  me ; "  and  then,  leaning  against  the  window,  and  looking 
upon  the  landscape,  he  uttered  a  very  audible  sigh.  As  I  had 
not  been  accustomed  to  see  Master  Simon  in  a  pensive  mood, 
I  thought  there  might  be  some  vexation  preying  on  his  mind, 
and  I  endeavored  to  introduce  a  cheerful  strain  of  conversa- 
tion ;  but  he  was  not  in  the  vein  to  follow  it  up,  and  proposed 
a  walk. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  of  that  soft  vernal  temperature, 
which  seems  to  thaw  all  the  frost  out  of  one's  blood,  and  set 
all  nature  in  a  ferment.  The  very  fishes  felt  its  influence ;  the 
cautious  trout  ventured  out  of  his  dark  hole  to  seek  his  mate ; 
the  roach  and  the  dace  rose  up  to  the  surface  of  the  brook  to 
bask  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  amorous  frog  piped  from  among 
the  rushes.  If  ever  an  oyster  can  really  fall  in  love,  as  has 
been  said  or  sung,  it  must  be  on  such  a  morning. 

The  weather  certainly  had  its  effect  upon  Master  Simon, 
for  he  seemed  obstinately  bent  upon  the  pensive  mood.  Instead 
of  stepping  briskly  along,  smacking  his  dog-whip,  whistling 
quaint  ditties,  or  telling  sporting  anecdotes,  he  leaned  on  my 
arm,  and  talked  about  the  approaching  nuptials ;  whence  he 
made  several  digressions  upon  the  character  of  womankind, 
touched  a  little  upon  the  tender  passion,  and  made  sundry  very 
excellent,  though  rather  trite,  observations  upon  disappoint- 
ments in  love.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  something  on  his 
mind  which  he  wished  to  impart,  but  felt  awkward  in  approach- 
ing it.  I  was  curious  to  see  what  this  strain  would  lead  to ; 
but  determined  not  to  assist  him.  Indeed,  I  mischievously 
pretended  to  turn  the  conversation,  and  talked  of  his  usual 
topics,  dogs,  horses,  and  hunting ;  but  he  was  very  brief  in  bia 


A    BACHELORS    CONFESSIONS.  163 

replies,  and  invariably  got  back,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  into  the 
sentimental  vein. 

At  length  we  came  to  a  clump  of  trees  ovrehanging  a  whis- 
pering brook,  with  a  rustic  bench  at  their  feet.  The  trees 
were  grievously  scored  with  letters  and  devices,  grown  out 
of  all  shape  and  size  by  the  growth  of  the  bark  ;  and  it  ap- 
peared that  this  grove  had  served  as  a  kind  of  register  of  the 
family  loves  from  time  immemorial.  Here  Master  Simon  made 
a  pause,  pulled  up  a  tuft  of  flowers,  threw  them  one  by  one 
into  the  water,  and  at  length,  turning  somewhat  abruptly  upon 
me,  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  been  in  love.  I  confess  the  question 
startled  me  a  little,  as  I  am  not  over-fond  of  making  confessions 
of  my  amorous  follies ;  and  above  all,  should  never  dream  of 
choosing  my  friend  Master  Simon  for  a  confidant.  He  did  not 
wait,  however,  for  a  reply  ;  the  inquiry  was  merely  a  prelude  to 
a  confession  on  his  own  part,  and  after  several  circumlocutions 
and  whimsical  preambles,  he  fairly  disburthened  himself  of  a 
very  tolerable  story  of  his  having  been  crossed  in  love. 

The  reader  will,  very  probably,  suppose  that  it  related  to  the 
gay  widow  who  jilted  him  not  long  since  at  Doncaster  races  ;  — 
no  such  thing.  It  was  about  a  sentimental  passion  that  he 
once  had  for  a  most  beautiful  young  lad}7,  who  wrote  poetry 
and  played  on  the  harp.  He  used  to  serenade  her;  and,  in- 
deed, he  described  several  tender  and  gallant  scenes,  in  which 
he  was  evidently  picturing  himself  in  his  mind's  eye  as  some 
elegant  hero  of  romance,  though,  unfortunately  for  the  tale,  I 
only  saw  him  as  he  stood  before  me,  a  dapper  little  old  bache- 
lor, with  a  face  like  an  apple  that  had  dried  with  the  bloom  on 
it. 

What  were  the  particulars  of  this  tender  tale,  I  have  already 
forgotten;  indeed,  I  listened  to  it  with  a  heart  like  a  very 
pebble-stone,  having  hard  work  to  repress  a  smile  while  Master 
Simon  was  putting  on  the  amorous  swain,  uttering  every  now 
and  then  a  sigh,  and  endeavoring  to  look  sentimental  and 
melancholy. 

All  that  I  recollect  is  that  the  lady,  according  to  his  account, 
was  certainly  a  little  touched ;  for  she  used  to  accept  all  the 
music  that  he  copied  for  her  harp,  and  all  the  patterns  that  he 
drew  for  her  dresses ;  and  he  began  to  flatter  himself,  after  a 
long  course  of  delicate  attentions,  that  he  was  gradually  fan- 
ning up  a  gentle  flame  in  her  heart,  when  she  suddenly  accepted 
the  hand  of  a  rich,  boisterous,  fox-hunting  baronet,  without 
either  music  or  sentiment,  who  carried  her  by  storin  after  a 
fortnight's  courtship. 


164  BBACEBRIDGE   HALL. 

Master  Simon  could  not  help  concluding  by  some  observation 
about  "modest  merit,"  and  the  power  of  gold  over  the  sex. 
As  a  remembrance  of  his  passion,  he  pointed  out  a  heart  carved 
on  the  bark  of  one  of  the  trees ;  but  which,  in  the  process  of 
time,  had  grown  out  into  a  large  excrescence ;  and  he  showed 
me  a  lock  of  her  hair,  which  he  wore  in  a  true-lover's  knot,  in 
a  large  gold  brooch. 

1  have  seldom  met  with  an  old  bachelor  who  had  not,  at  some 
time  or  other,  his  nonsensical  moment,  when  he  would  become 
tender  and  sentimental,  talk  about  the  concerns  of  the  heart, 
and  have  some  confession  of  a  delicate  nature  to  make.  Al- 
most every  man  has  some  little  trait  of  romance  in  his  life, 
to  which  he  looks  back  with  fondness,  and  about  which  he  is 
apt  to  grow  garrulous  occasionally.  He  recollects  himself  as 
he  was  at  the  time,  young  and  gamesome ;  and  forgets  that  his 
hearers  have  no  other  idea  of  the  hero  of  the  tale,  but  such  as 
he  may  appear  at  the  time  of  telling  it ;  peradventure,  a  with- 
ered, whimsical,  spindle-shanked  old  gentleman.  With  mar- 
ried men,  it  is  true,  this  is  not  so  frequently  the  case:  their 
amorous  romance  is  apt  to  decline  after  marriage ;  why,  I  can- 
not for  the  life  of  me  imagine ;  but  with  a  bachelor,  though  it 
may  slumber,  it  never  dies.  It  is  always  liable  to  break  out 
again  in  transient  flashes,  and  never  so  much  as  on  a  spring 
morning  in  the  country ;  or  on  a  winter  evening  when  seated  in 
his  solitary  chamber  stirring  up  the  fire  and  talking  of  matri- 
mony. 

The  moment  Master  Simon  had  gone  through  his  confes- 
sion, and,  to  use  the  common  phrase  "  had  made  a  clean  breast 
of  it,"  he  became  quite  himself  again.  He  had  settled  the  point 
which  had  been  worrying  his  mind,  and  doubtless  considered 
himself  established  as  a  man  of  sentiment  in  my  opinion.  Before 
we  had  finished  our  morning's  stroll,  he  was  singing  as  blithe 
as  a  grasshopper,  whistling  to  his  dogs,  and  telling  droll  stories ; 
and  I  recollect  that  he  was  particularly  facetious  that  day  at 
dinner  on  the  subject  of  matrimony,  and  uttered  several  excel- 
lent jokes,  not  to  be  found  in  Joe  Miller,  that  made  the  bride 
elect  blush  and  look  down ;  but  set  all  the  old  gentlemen  at  the 
table  in  a  roar,  and  absolutely  brought  tears  into  the  general's 


an  old 
it,  until   _, 
en  par- 
niittina 


ENGLISH  GRAVITY.  165 

ENGLISH   GRAVITY. 

"  Merrie  England ! "  —  Ancient  Phrase. 

THERE  is  nothing  so  rare  as  for  a  man  to  ride  his  hobby  with- 
out molestation.  I  find  the  Squire  has  not  so  undisturbed  an 
indulgence  in  his  humors  as  I  had  imagined ;  but  has  been 
repeatedly  thwarted  of  late,  and  has  suffered  a  kind  of  well- 
meaning  persecution  from  a  Mr.  Faddy,  an  old  gentleman  of 
some  weight,  at  least  of  purse,  who  has  recently  moved  into 
the  neighborhood.  He  is  a  worthy  and  substantial  manufac- 
turer, who,  having  accumulated  a  large  fortune  by  dint  of 
steam-engines  and  spinning-jennies,  has  retired  from  business, 
and  set  up  for  a  country  gentleman.  He  has  taken  an  old 
country-seat,  and  refitted  it ;  and  painted  and  plastered 
it  looks  not  unlike  his  own  manufactory.  He  has  been 
ticularly  careful  in  mending  the  walls  and  hedges,  and  putting 
up  notices  of  spring-guns  and  man-traps  in  every  part  of  his 
premises.  Indeed,  he  shows  great  jealousy  about  his  territorial 
rights,  having  stopped  up  a  footpath  that  led  across  his  fields, 
and  given  warning,  in  staring  letters,  that  whoever  was  found 
trespassing  on  those  grounds  would  be  prosecuted  with  the 
utmost  rigor  of  the  law.  He  has  brought  into  the  country  witli 
him  all  the  practical  maxims  of  town,  and  the  bustling  habits 
of  business ;  and  is  one  of  those  sensible,  useful,  prosing, 
troublesome,  intolerable  old  gentlemen,  who  go  about  wearying 
and  worrying  society  with  excellent  plans  for  public  utility. 

He  is  very  much  disposed  to  be  on  intimate  terms  with  the 
Squire,  and  calls  on  him  every  now  and  then,  with  some  pro- 
ject for  the  good  of  the  neighborhood,  which  happens  to  run 
diametrically  opposite  to  some  one  or  other  of  the  Squire's 
peculiar  notions ;  but  which  is  "  too  sensible  a  measure"  to  be 
openly  opposed.  He  has  annoyed  him  excessively,  by  enfor- 
cing the  vagrant  laws  ;  persecuting  the  gypsies,  and  endeavor- 
ing to  suppress  country  wakes  and  holiday  games ;  which  he 
considers  great  nuisances,  and  reprobates  as  causes  of  the 
deadly  sin  of  idleness. 

There  is  evidently  in  all  this  a  little  of  the  ostentation  of 
newly-acquired  consequence  ;  the  tradesman  is  gradually  swelling 
into  the  aristocrat ;  and  he  begins  to  grow  excessively  intoler- 
ant of  every  thing  that  is  not  genteel.  He  has  a  great  deal  to 
say  about  "  the  common  people ;  "  talks  much  of  his  park,  hi* 


166  BRACEBR1DGE  HALL. 

preserves,  and  the  necessity  of  enforcing  the  game-laws  more 
strictly  ;  and  makes  frequent  use  of  the  phrase,  "  the  gentry  of 
the  neighborhood." 

He  came  to  the  Hall  lately,  with  a  face  full  of  business,  that 
he  and  the  Squire,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  might  lay  their  heads 
together,"  to  hit  upon  some  mode  of  putting  a  stop  to  the  frolick- 
ing at  the  village  on  the  approaching  May-day.  It  drew,  he 
said,  idle  people  together  from  all  parts  of  the  neighborhood, 
who  spent  the  day  fiddling,  dancing,  and  carousing,  instead  of 
staying  at  home  to  work  for  their  families. 

Now,  as  the  Squire,  unluckily,  is  at  the  bottom  of  these  Ma}r- 
day  revels,  it  may  be  supposed  that  the  suggestions  of  the 
sagacious  Mr.  Faddy  were  not  received  with  the  best  grace  in 
the  world.  It  is  true,  the  old  gentleman  is  too  courteous  to 
show  any  temper  to  a  guest  in  his  own  house ;  but  no  sooner 
was  he  gone,  than  the  indignation  of  the  Squire  found  vent,  at 
having  his  poetical  cobwebs  invaded  by  this  buzzing,  blue-bottle 
fly  of  traffic.  In  his  warmth,  he  inveighed  against  the  whole 
race  of  manufacturers,  who,  I  found,  were  sore  disturbers  of 
his  comfort.  "Sir,"  said  he,  with  emotion,  "it  makes  my 
heart  bleed,  to  see  all  our  fine  streams  dammed  up,  and  bestrode 
by  cotton-mills ;  our  valleys  smoking  with  steam-engines,  and 
the  din  of  the  hammer  and  the  loom  scaring  away  all  our  rural 
delight.  What's  to  become  of  merry  old  England,  when  its 
manor-houses  are  all  turned  into  manufactories,  and  its  sturdy 
peasantry  into  pin -makers  and  stocking  -  weavers  ?  I  have 
looked  in  vain  for  merry  Sherwood,  and  all  the  greenwood 
haunts  of  Robin  Hood  ;  the  whole  country  is  covered  with  manu- 
facturing towns.  I  have  stood  on  the  ruins  of  Dudley  Castle, 
and  looked  round,  with  an  aching  heart,  on  what  were  once  its 
feudal  domains  of  verdant  and  beautiful  country.  Sir,  I  be- 
held a  mere  campus  phlegrse ;  a  region  of  fire ;  reeking  with 
coal-pits,  and  furnaces,  and  smelting-houses,  vomiting  forth 
flames  and  smoke.  The  pale  and  ghastly  people,  toiling  among 
vile  exhalations,  looked  more  like  demons  than  human  beings  ; 
the  clanking  wheels  and  engines,  seen  through  the  murky  at- 
mosphere, looked  like  instruments  of  torture  in  this  pandemo- 
nium. What  is  to  become  of  the  country,  with  these  evils 
rankling  in  its  very  core?  Sir,  these  manufacturers  will  be 
the  ruin  of  our  rural  manners ;  the}'  will  destroy  the  national 
character;  they  will  not  leave  materials  for  a  single  line  of 
poetry !  " 

The  Squire  is  apt  to  wax  eloquent  on  such  themes ;  and  I 
could  hardly  help  smiling  at  this  whimsical  lamentation  over 


ENGLISH    GRAVITY.  167 

national  industry  and  public  improvement.  I  am  told,  how- 
ever, that  he  really  grieves  at  the  growing  of  trade,  as  de- 
troyincr,  the  charm  of  life.  He  considers  every  new  shorthand 
mode  of  doing  things,  as  an  inroad  of  snug  sordid  method ;  ( 
and  thinks  that  this  will  soon  become  a  mere  matter-of-fact 
world,  where  life  will  be  reduced  to  a  mathematical  calculation 
of  conveniences,  and  every  thing  will  be  done  by  steam. 

He  maintains,  also,  that  the  nation  has  declined  in  its  free 
and  joyous  spirit,  in  proportion  as  it  has  turned  its  attention  to 
commerce  and  manufactures ;  and  that,  in  old  times,  when 
England  was  an  idler,  it  was  also  a  merrier  little  island.  In^&f' 
support  of  this  opinion,  he  adduces  the  frequency  and  splendor  of 
ancient  festivals  and  merry-makings,  and  the  hearty  spirit  with 
which  they  were  kept  up  by  all  classes  of  people.  His  memory 
is  stored  with  the  accounts  given  by  Stow,  in  his  Survey  of 
London,  of  the  holiday  revels  at  the  inns  of  court,  the  Christ- 
mas mummeries,  and  the  maskings  and  bonfires  about  the 
streets.  London,  he  says,  in  those  days,  resembled  the  conti- 
nental cities  in  its  picturesque  manners  and  amusements.  The 
court  used  to  dance  after  dinner,  on  public  occasions.  After 
the  coronation  dinner  of  Richard  II.,  for  example,  the  king,  the 
prelates,  the  nobles,  the  knights,  and  the  rest  of  the  company, 
danced  in  Westminster  Hall  to  the  music  of  the  minstrels.  The 
example  of  the  court  was  followed  by  the  middling  classes,  and 
so  down  to  the  lowest,  and  the  whole  nation  was  a  dancing, 
jovial  nation.  He  quotes  a  lively  city  picture  of  the  times,  given 
by  Stow,  which  resembles  the  lively  scenes  one  may  often  see 
in  the  gay  city  of  Paris  ;  for  he  tells  us  that  on  holidays,  after 
evening  prayers,  the  maidens  in  London  used  to  assemble  before 
the  door,  in  sight  of  their  masters  and  dames,  and  while  one 
played  on  a  timbrel,  the  others  danced  for  garlands,  hanged 
athwart  the  street. 

"  Where  will  we  meet  with  such  merry  groups  now-a-days?" 
the  Squire  will  exclaim,  shaking  his  head  mournfully;  —  "  and 
then  as  to  the  gayety  that  prevailed  in  dress  throughout  all 
ranks  of  society,  and  made  the  very  streets  so  fine  and  pictur- 
esque :  '  I  have  myself,'  says  Gervaise  Markham,  '  met  an  or- 
dinary tapster  in  his  silk  stockings,  garters  deep  fringed  with 
gold  lace,  the  rest  of  his  apparel  suitable,  with  cloak  lined  with 
velvet!'  Nashe,  too,  who  wrote  in  1593,  exclaims  at  the 
finery  of  the  nation  :  '  England,  the  player's  stage  of  gorgeous 
attire,  the  ape  of  all  nations'  superfluities,  the  continual  masker 
in  outlandish  habiliments.'  " 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  authorities  quoted  by  the  Squire,  by 


168  BRACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

way  of  contrasting  what  he  supposes  to  have  been  the  former 
vivacity  of  the  nation  with  its  present  monotonous  character. 
"John  Bull,"  he  will  say,  "  was  then  a  gay  cavalier,  with  his 
sword  by  his  side  and  a  feather  in  his  cap ;  but  he  is  now  a 
plodding  citizen,  in  snuff-colored  coat  and  gaiters." 

By  the  by,  there  really  appears  to  have  been  some  change  in 

the  national  character,  since  the  days  of  which  the  Squire  is  so 

fond  of  talking ;  those  days  when  this  little  island  acquired  its 

favorite  old  title  of  "merry  England."    This  may  be  attributed 

in  part  to  the  growing  hardships  of  the  times,  and  the  necessity 

of  turning  the  whole  attention  to  the  means  of  subsistence ;  but 

/England's  gavest  customs  prevailed  at  times  when  her  common 

/  people  enjoyed  comparatively  few  of  the  comforts  and  conven- 

[      iences  which  they  do  at  present.     It  may  be -stfiTffiore  attributed 

I      to  the  universal  spirit  of  gain,  and  the  calculating  habits  which 

v^cojoamerce   has  introduced ;   but  I  am  inclined  to  atti'ibute  it 

chiefly  to  the  gradual  increase  of  the  liberty  of  the  subject,  and 

the  growing  freedom  and  activity  of  opinion. 

A  free  people  are  apt  to  be  grave  and  thoughtful.  They  have 
high  and  important  matters  to  occupy  their  minds.  They  feel 
that  it  is  their  right,  their  interest,  and  their  duty,  to  mingle  in 
public  concerns,  and  to  watch  over  the  general  welfare.  The 
continual  exercise  of  the  mind  on  political  topics  gives  intenser 
habits  of  thinking,  and  a  more  serious  and  earnest  demeanor. 
A  nation  becomes  less  gay,  but  more  intellectually  active  and 
vigorous.  It  evinces  less  pla}'  of  the  fancy,  but  more  power  of 
the  imagination ;  less  taste  and  elegance,  but  more  grandeur 
of  mind ;  less  animated  vivacity,  but  deeper  enthusiasm. 

It  is  when  men  are  shut  out  of  the  regions  of  mauly  thought, 
fry  a  despotic  government ;  when  every  grave  and  lofty  theme 
is  rendered  perilous  to  discussion  and  almost  to  reflection ;  it 
is  then  that  they  turn  to  the  safer  occupations  of  taste  and 
amusement ;  trifles  rise  to  importance,  and  occupy  the  craving 
activity  of  intellect.  No  being  is  more  void  of  care  and  reflec- 
tion than  the  slave  ;  none  dances  more  gayty,  in  his  intervals 
of  labor;  but  make  him  free,  give  him  i \ghts  and  interests  to 
guard,  and  he  becomes  thoughtful  and  laborious. 

The  French  are  a  gayer  people  than  the  English.  Why? 
Partly  from  temperament,  perhaps ;  but  greatly  because  they 
have  been  accustomed  to  governments  which  surrounded  the 
free  exercise  of  thought  with  danger,  and  where  he  only  was 
safe  who  shut  his  eyes  and  ears  to  public  events,  and  enjoj-ed 
the  passing  pleasure  of  the  day.  Within  late  years,  they  have 
had  more  opportunity  of  exercising  their  minds ;  and  within 


GYPSIES.  169 

late  years,  the  national  character  has  essentially  changed. 
Never  did  the  French  enjoy  such  a  degree  of  freedom  as  they  do 
at  this  moment ;  and  at  this  moment  the  French  are  compara- 
tively a  grave  people. 


GYPSIES. 

What's  that  to  absolute  freedom ;  such  as  the  very  beggars  have ;  to  feast  »nd  revel 
here  to-day,  and  yonder  to-morrow;  next  day  where  they  please;  and  so  on  still,  the 
whole  country  or  kingdom  over?  There's  liberty!  the  birds  of  the  air  can  take  no 
more. — Jovial  Crew. 

SINCE  the  meeting  with  the  gypsies,  which  I  have  related  in 
a  former  paper,  I  have  observed  several  of  them  haunting  the 
purlieus  of  the  Hall,  notwithstanding  a  positive  interdiction  of  the 
Squire.  They  are  part  of  a  gang  which  has  long  kept  about  this 
neighborhood,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  the  farmers,  whose 
poultry -yards  often  suffer  from  their  nocturnal  invasions.  They 
are,  however,  in  some  measure  patronized  by  the  Squire,  who 
considers  the  race  as  belonging  to  the  good  old  times ;  which, 
to  confess  the  private  truth,  seem  to  have  abounded  with  good- 
for-nothing  characters. 

This  roving  crew  is  called  "Starlight  Tom's  Gang,"  from 
the  name  of  its  chieftain,  a  notorious  poacher.  I  have  heard 
repeatedly  of  the  misdeeds  of  this  "minion  of  the  moon;" 
for  every  midnight  depredation  in  park,  or  fold,  or  farm-yard, 
is  laid  to  his  charge.  Starlight  Tom,  in  fact,  answers  to 
his  name;  he  seems  to  walk  in  darkness,  and,  like  a  fox, 
to  be  traced  in  the  morning  by  the  mischief  he  has  done. 
He  reminds  me  of  that  fearful  personage  in  the  nursery  rhyme ; 

Who  goes  round  the  house  at  night? 

None  but  bloody  Tom ! 
Who  steals  all  the  sheep  at  night? 

None  but  one  by  one ! 

In  short,  Starlight  Tom  is  the  scapegoat  of  the  neighborhood, 
but  so  cunning  and  adroit,  that  there  is  no  detecting  him.  Old 
Christy  and  the  game-keeper  have  watched  many  a  night,  in 
hopes  of  entrapping  him ;  and  Christy  often  patrols  the  park 
with  his  dogs,  for  the  purpose,  but  all  in  vain.  It  is  said  that 
the  Squire  winks  hard  at  his  misdeeds,  having  an  indulgent 
feeling  towards  the  vagabond,  because  of  his  being  very  expert 
at  all  kinds  of  games,  a  great  shot  with  the  cross-bow,  and  the 
best  morris-dancer  in  the  country. 


170  BRACEBRIDGE   HALL. 

The  Squire  also  suffers  the  gang  to  lurk  unmolested  about 
the  skirts  of  his  estate,  on  condition  they  do  not  come 
about  the  house.  The  approaching  wedding,  however,  has 
made  a  kind  of  Saturnalia  at  the  Hall,  and  has  caused  a  sus- 
pension of  all  sober  rule.  It  has  produced  a  great  sensation 
throughout  the  female  part  of  the  household  ;  not  a  housemaid 
but  dreams  of  wedding  favors,  and  has  a  husband  running  in 
her  head.  Such  a  time  is  a  harvest  for  the  gypsies  :  there  is  a 
public  footpath  leading  across  one  part  of  the  park,  by  which 
they  have  free  ingress,  and  they  are  continually  hovering  about 
the  grounds,  telling  the  servant-girls'  fortunes,  or  getting  smug- 
gled in  to  the  young  ladies. 

I  believe  the  Oxonian  amuses  himself  very  much  by  furnish- 
ing them  with  hints  in  private,  and  bewildering  all  the  weak 
brains  in  the  house  with  their  wonderful  revelations.  The 
general  certainly  was  very  much  astonished  by  the  communica- 
tions made  to  him  the  other  evening  by  the  gypsy  girl :  he  kept 
a  wary  silence  towards  us  on  the  subject,  and  affected  to  treat 
it  lightly ;  but  I  have  noticed  that  he  has  since  redoubled  his 
attentions  to  Lady  Lilly  craft  and  her  dogs. 

I  have  seen  also  Phoebe  Wilkins,  the  housekeeper's  pretty 
and  love-sick  niece,  holding  a  long  conference  with  one  of  these 
old  sibyls  behind  a  large  tree  in  the  avenue,  and  often  looking 
round  to  see  that  she  was  not  observed.  I  make  no  doubt 
she  was  endeavoring  to  get  some  favorable  augury  about  the 
result  of  her  love-quarrel  with  young  Ready-Money,  as  oracles 
have  always  been  more  consulted  on  love  affairs  than  upon  any 
thing  else.  I  fear,  however,  that  in  this  instance  the  response 
was  not  so  favorable  as  usual ;  for  I  perceived  poor  Phoebe 
returning  pensively  towards  the  house,  her  head  hanging  down, 
her  hat  in  her  hand,  and  the  ribbon  trailing  along  the  ground. 

At  another  time,  as  I  turned  a  corner  of  a  terrace,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  garden,  just  by  a  clump  of  trees,  and  a  large  stone 
urn,  I  came  upon  a  bevy  of  the  young  girls  of  the  family,  at- 
tended by  this  same  Phoebe  Wilkins.  I  was  at  a  loss  to  com- 
prehend the  meaning  of  their  blushing  and  giggling,  and  their 
apparent  agitation,  until  I  saw  the  red  cloak  of  a  gypsy  vanish- 
ing among  the  shrubbery.  A  few  moments  after,  I  caught  a 
sight  of  Master  Simon  and  the  Oxonian  stealing  along  one  of 
the  walks  of  the  garden,  chuckling  and  laughing  at  their  suc- 
cessful waggery ;  having  evidently  put  the  gypsy  up  to  the 
thing,  and  instructed  her  what  to  say. 

After  all,  there  is  something  strangely  pleasing  in  these  tam- 
perings  with  the  future,  even  where  we  are  convinced  of  the 


GYPSIES.  171 

/--•> 

fallacy  of  the  prediction.  It  is  singular  how  willingly  the  mind 
will  half  deceive  itself ;  and  with  a  degree  of  awe  we  will  listen 
even  to  these  babblers  about  futurity.  For  my  part,  I  cannot 
feel  angry  with  these  poor  vagabonds,  that  seek  to  deceive  us 
into  bright  hopes  and  expectations.  I  have  always  been  some- 
thing of  a  castle-builder,  and  have  found  my  liveliest  pleasures 
to  arise  from  the  illusions  which  fancy  has  cast  over  common- 
place realities.  As  I  get  on  in  life,  I  find  it  more  difficult  to 
deceive  myself  in  this  delightful  manner;  and  I  should Jbg_^^ 
thankful  to  any  prophet,  however  false,  who  would  conjure  the  """"x. 
clouds  which  hang  over  futurity  into  palaces,  and  all  its  doubtful 
regions  into  fairy-land. 

The  Squire,  wlioTlOrl  have  obuci'vcd,  hub  a,  prtViUfl  gMd-Wiii 
towards  gypsies,  has  suffered  considerable  annoyance  on  their 
account.  Not  that  they  requite  his  indulgence  with  ingratitude, 
for  they  do  not  depredate  very  flagrantly  on  his  estate ;  but 
because  their  pilferings  and  misdeeds  occasion  loud  murmurs  in 
the  village.  1  can  readily  understand  the  old  gentleman's  hu- 
mor on  this  point.  I  have  a  great  toleration  for  all  kinds  of 
vagrant  sunshiny  existence,  and  must  confess  I  take  a  pleasure 
in  observing  the  ways  of  gypsies.  The  English,  who  are  ac- 
customed to  them  from  childhood,  and  often  suffer  from  their 
petty  depredations,  consider  them  as  mere  nuisances ;  but  I 
have  been  very  much  struck  with  their  peculiarities.  I  like 
to  behold  their  clear  olive  complexions,  their  romantic  black 
eyes,  their  raven  locks,  their  lithe,  slender  figures ;  and  hear 
them  in  low  silver  tones  dealing  forth  magnificent  prom- 
ises of  honors  and  estates,  of  world's  wealth,  and  ladies' 
love. 

Their  mode  of  life,  too,  has  something  in  it  very  fanciful  an 
picturesque.  They  are  the  free  denizens  of  nature,  and  main 
tain  a  primitive  independence,  in  spite  of  law  and  gospel 
county  jails  and  country  magistrates.  It  is  curious  to  see  this 
obstinate  adherence  to  the  wild,  unsettled  habits  of  savage  life 
transmitted  from  generation  to  generation,  and  preserved  in  the 
midst  of  one  of  the  most  cultivated,  populous,  and  systematic 
countries  in  the  world.  They  are  totally  distinct  from  the  busy, 
thrifty  people  about  them.  They  seem  to  be,  like  the  Indians 
of  America,  either  above  or  below  the  ordinary  cares  and  anxi- 
eties of  mankind.  Heedless  of  power,  of  honors,  of  wealth ; 
and  indifferent  to  the  fluctuations  of  times ;  the  rise  or  fall  of 
grain,  or  stock,  or  empires,  they  seem  to  laugh  at  the  toiling, 
fretting  world  around  them,  and  to  live  according  to  the  philoso- 
phy of  the  old  song : 


and 
ain- 

;  of 


172  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

"  Who  would  ambition  shun, 
And  loves  to  lie  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  cats, 
And  pleaeed  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither; 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather." 

In  this  way,  they  wander  from  county  to  county;  keeping 
about  the  purlieus  of  villages,  or  in  plenteous  neighborhoods, 
where  there  are  fat  farms  and  rich  country-seats.  Their  en- 
campments are  generally  made  in  some  beautiful  spot  —  either 
a  green  shady  nook  of  a  road  ;  or  on  the  border  of  a  common, 
under  a  sheltering  hedge ;  or  on  the  skirts  of  a  fine  spreading 
wood.  They  are  always  to  be  found  lurking  about  fairs,  and 
races,  and  rustic  gatherings,  wherever  there  is  pleasure,  and 
throng,  and  idleness.  They  are  the  oracles  of  milk-maids  and 
simple  serving-girls ;  and  sometimes  have  even  the  honor  of 
perusing  the  white  hands  of  gentlemen's  daughters,  when 
rambling  about  their  fathers'  grounds.  They  are  the  bane  of 
good  housewives  and  thrifty  farmers,  and  odious  in  the  eyes 
of  country  justices ;  but,  like  all  other  vagabond  beings,  they 
have  something  to  commend  them  to  the  fancy.  They  are 
among  the  last  traces,  in  these  matter-of-fact  days,  of  the 
motley  population  of  former  times ;  and  are  whimsically  asso- 
ciated in  my  mind  with  fairies  and  witches,  Robin  Goodfellow, 
Robin  Hood,  and  the  other  fantastical  personages  of  poetry. 


MAY-DAY  CUSTOMS. 

Happy  the  age,  and  harmless  were  the  dayes, 

(For  then  true  love  and  amity  was  found,) 
When  every  village  did  a  May -pole  raise, 

And  Whitson  ales  and  May -games  did  abound  : 
And  all  the  lusty  yonkers  in  a  rout, 
With  merry  lasses  daunc'd  the  rod  about, 
Then  friendship  to  their  banquets  bid  the  guests, 
And  poore  men  far'd  the  better  for  their  feasts. 

—  PASQUIL'S  Palinodia. 

THE  month  of  April  has  nearly  passed  away,  and  we  are  fast 
approaching  that  poetical  day,  which  was  considered,  in  old 
times,  as  the  boundary  that  parted  the  frontiers  of  winter  and 
summer.  "With  all  its  caprices,  however,  I  like  the  month  of 


MAY-DAY    CUSTOMS.  173 

April.  I  like  tbese  laughing  and  crying  days,  when  sun  and 
shade  seem  to  run  in  billows  over  the  landscape.  I  like  to  see 
the  sudden  shower  coursing  over  the  meadow,  and  giving  all 
nature  a  green  smile ;  and  the  bright  sunbeams  chasing  the 
flying  cloud,  and  turning  all  its  drops  into  diamonds. 

I  was  enjoying  a  morning  of  the  kind,  in  company  with  the 
Squire,  in  one  of  the  finest  parts  of  the  park.  We  were  skirt- 
ing a  beautiful  grove,  and  he  was  giving  me  a  kind  of  bio- 
graphical account  of  several  of  his  favorite  forest  trees,  when 
he  heard  the  strokes  of  an  axe  from  the  midst  of  a  thick  copse. 
The  Squire  paused  and  listened,  with  manifest  signs  of  uneasi- 
ness. He  turned  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  The 
strokes  grew  louder  and  louder  as  we  advanced;  there  was 
evidently  a  vigorous  arm  wielding  the  axe.  The  Squire  quick- 
ened his  pace,  but  in  vain;  a  loud  crack,  and  a  succeeding 
crash,  told  that  the  mischief  had  been  done,  and  some  child  of 
the  forest  laid  low.  When  we  came  to  the  place,  we  found 
Master  Simon  and  several  others  standing  about  a  tall  and 
beautifully  straight  young  tree,  which  had  just  been  felled. 

The  Squire,  though  a  man  of  most  harmonious  dispositions, 
was  completely  put  out  of  tune  by  this  circumstance.  He  felt 
like  a  monarch  witnessing  the  murder  of  one  of  his  liege  sub- 
jects, and  demanded,  with  some  asperity,  the  meaning  of  the 
outrage.  It  turned  out  to  be  an  affair  of  Master  Simon's,  who 
had  selected  the  tree  from  its  height  and  straightness,  for  a 
May-pole,  the  old  one  which  stood  on  the  village  green  being 
unfit  for  farther  service.  If  any  thing  could  have  soothed  the 
ire  of  my  worthy  host,  it  would  have  been  the  reflection  that 
his  tree  had  fallen  in  so  good  a  cause ;  and  I  saw  that  there 
was  a  great  struggle  between  his  fondness  for  his  groves,  and 
his  devotion  to  May-day.  He  could  not  contemplate  the  pros- 
trate tree,  however,  without  indulging  in  lamentation,  and 
making  a  kind  of  funeral  eulogy,  like  Mark  Antony  over  the 
body  of  Caesar;  and  he  forbade  that  any  tree  should  thence- 
forward be  cut  down  on  his  estate,  without  a  warrant  from 
himself  ;  being  determined,  he  said,  to  hold  the  sovereign  power 
of  life  and  death  in  his  own  hands. 

This  mention  of  the  May-pole  struck  my  attention,  and  I  in- 
quired whether  the  old  customs  connected  with  it  were  really 
kept  up  in  this  part  of  the  country.  The  Squire  shook  his 
head  mournfully;  and  I  found  I  had  touched  on  one  of  his 
tender  points,  for  he  grew  quite  melancholy  in  bewailing  the 
total  decline  of  old  May-day.  Though  it  is  regularly  celebrated 
in  the  neighboring  village,  yet  it  has  been  merely  resuscitated 


174  BRACEBRIDGE  U ALL. 

by  the  worthy  Squire,  and  is  kept  up  in  a  forced  state  of  exist- 
ence at  his  expense.  He  meets  with  continual  discouragements ; 
and  finds  great  difficulty  in  getting  the  country  bumpkins  to 
play  their  parts  tolerably.  He  manages  to  have  every  year  a 
"  Queen  of  the  May  ; "  but  as  to  Robin  Hood,  Friar  Tuck,  the 
Dragon,  the  Hobby-Horse,  and  all  the  other  motley  crew  that 
used  to  enliven  the  day  with  their  mummery,  he  has  not  ventured 
to  introduce  them. 

Still  I  look  forward  with  some  interest  to  the  promised 
shadow  of  old  May-day,  even  though  it  be  but  a  shadow ;  and 
I  feel  more  and  more  pleased  with  the  whimsical  yet  harmless 
hobby  of  my  host,  which  is  surrounding  him  with  agreeable 
associations,  and  making  a  little  world  of  poetry  about  him. 
Brought  up,  as  I  have  been,  in  a  new  country,  I  may  appreciate 
too  highly  the  faint  vestiges  of  ancient  customs  which  I  now 
and  then  meet  with,  and  the  interest  I  express  in  them  may 
provoke  a  smile  from  those  who  are  negligently  suffering  them 
to  pass  away.  But  with  whatever  indifference  they  may  be 
regarded  by  those  "  to  the  manner  born,"  yet  in  my  mind  the 
lingering  flavor  of  them  imparts  a  charm  to  rustic  life,  which 
nothing  else  could  readily  supply. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  delight  I  felt  on  first  seeing  a  May- 
pole. It  was  on  the  banks  of  the  Dee,  close  by  the  picturesque 
old  bridge  that  stretches  across  the  river  from  the  quaint  little 
city  of  Chester.  I  had  already  been  carried  back  into  former 
days,  by  the  antiquities  of  that  venerable  place ;  the  examina- 
tion of  which  is  equal  to  turning  over  the  pages  of  a  black-letter 
volume,  or  gazing  on  the  pictures  in  Froissart.  The  May-pole 
on  the  margin  of  that  poetic  stream  completed  the  illusion. 
My  fancy  adorned  it  with  wreaths  of  flowers,  and  peopled  the 
green  bank  with  all  the  dancing  revelry  of  May-day.  The  mere 
sight  of  this  May-pole  gave  a  glow  to  my  feelings,  and  spread 
a  charm  over  the  country  for  the  rest  of  the  day ;  and  as  I 
traversed  a  part  of  the  fair  plain  of  Cheshire,  and  the  beautiful 
borders  of  Wales,  and  looked  from  among  swelling  hills  down 
-a  long  green  valley,  through  which  "  the  Deva  wound  its  wizard 
stream,"  my  imagination  turned  all  into  a  perfect  Arcadia. 

Whether  it  be  owing  to  such  poetical  associations  early  in- 
stilled into  my  mind,  or  whether  there  is  a  sympatfietic  re- 
vival and  budding  forth  of  the  feelings  at  this  season,  certain 
it  is,  that  I  always  experience,  wherever  I  may  be  placed,  a 
delightful  expansion  of  the  heart  at  the  return  of  May.  It  is 
said  that  birds  about  this  time  will  become  restless  in  then* 
cages,  as  if  instinct  with  thf  season,  conscious  of  the  revelry 


MAT-DAY    CUSTOMS.  175 

going  on  in  the  groves,  and  impatient  to  break  from  their 
bondage,  and  join  in  the  jubilee  of  the  year.  In  like  man- 
ner I  have  felt  myself  excited,  even  in  the  midst  of  the 
metropolis,  when  the  windows,  which  had  been  churlishly  closed 
all  winter,  were  again  thrown  open  to  receive  the  balmy  breath 
of  May ;  when  the  sweets  of  the  country  were  breathed  into 
the  town,  and  flowers  were  cried  about  the  streets.  I  have 
considered  the  treasures  of  flowers  thus  poured  in,  as  so  many 
missives  from  nature,  inviting  us  forth  to  enjoy  the  virgin 
beauty  of  the  year,  before  its  freshness  is  exhaled  by  the  heats 
of  sunny  summer. 

One  can  readily  imagine  what  a  gay  scene  it  must  have  been 
in  jolly  old  London,  when  the  doors  were  decorated  with 
flowering  branches,  when  every  hat  was  decked  with  hawthorn, 
iind  Robin  Hood,  Friar  Tuck,  Maid  Marian,  the  morris-dancers, 
and  all  the  other  fantastic  masks  and  revellers,  were  performing 
tiieir  antics  about  the  May-pole  in  every  part  of  the  city. 

I  am  not  a  bigoted  admirer  of  old  times  and  old  cus- 
toms, merely  because  of  their  antiquity :  but  while  I  rejoice 
in  the  decline  of  many  of  the  rude  usages  and  coarse  amuse- 
ments of  former  days,  I  regret  that  this  innocent  and  fanci- 
ful festival  has  fallen  into  disuse.  It  seemed  appropriate  to 
this  verdant  and  pastoral  country,  and  calculated  to  light  up 
the  too-pervading  gravity  of  the  nation.  I  value  every  custom 
which  tends  to  infuse  poetical  feeling  into  the  common  people, 
and  to  sweeten  and  soften  the  rudeness  of  rustic  manners, 
without  destroying  their  simplicity.  Indeed,  it  is  to  the  decline 
of  this  happy  simplicity,  that  the  decline  of  this  custom  may 
be  traced ;  and  the  rural  dance  on  the  green,  and  the  homely 
May-day  pageant,  have  gradually  disappeared,  in  proportion  as 
the  peasantry  have  become  expensive  and  artificial  in  their 
pleasures,  and  too  knowing  for  simple  enjoyment. 

Some  attempts,  the  Squire  informs  me,  have  been  made  of 
late  years,  by  men  of  both  taste  and  learning,  to  rally  back  the 
popular  feeling  to  these  standards  of  primitive  simplicity  ;  but 
the  time  has  gone  by,  the  feeling  has  become  chilled  by  habits 
of  gain  and  traffic,  the  country  apes  the  manners  and  amuse- 
ments of  the  town,  and  little  is  heard  of  May-day  at  present, 
except  from  the  lamentations  of  authors,  who  sigh  after  it  from 
among  the  brick  walls  of  the  city : 

"  For  O,  for  O,  the  Hobby-Horse  U  forgot" 


176  BEACEBBIDGE  HALL. 


VILLAGE  WORTHIES. 

Nay,  I  tell  you,  I  am  so  well  beloved  in  our  town,  that  not  the  worst  dog  In  the  street 
wHl  hurt  my  little  finger.  —  Collier  of  Croydon. 

As  the  neighboring  village  is  one  of  those  out-of-the-way, 
but  gossiping,  little  places  where  a  small  matter  makes  a  great 
stir,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  approach  of  a  festival  like 
that  of  May-day  can  be  regarded  with  indifference,  especially 
since  it  is  made  a  matter  of  such  moment  by  the  great  folks  at 
the  Hall.  Master  Simon,  who  is  the  faithful  factotum  of  the 
worthy  Squire,  and  jumps  with  his  humor  in  every  thing,  is 
frequent  just  now  in  his  visits  to  the  village,  to  give  directions 
for  the  impending  fete ;  and  as  I  have  taken  the  liberty  occa- 
sionally of  accompanying  him,  I  have  been  enabled  to  get  some 
insight  into  the  characters  and  internal  politics  of  this  very 
sagacious  little  community. 

Master  Simon  is  in  fact  the  Caesar  of  the  village.  It  is  true 
the  Squire  is  the  protecting  power,  but  his  factotum  is  the 
active  and  busy  agent.  He  intermeddles  in  all  its  concerns,  is 
acquainted  with  all  the  inhabitants  and  their  domestic  histor3T, 
gives  counsel  to  the  old  folks  in  their  business  matters,  and  the 
young  folks  in  their  love  affairs,  and  enjoys  the  proud  satis- 
faction of  being  a  great  man  in  a  little  world. 

He  is  the  dispenser,  too,  of  the  Squire's  charity,  which  is 
bounteous ;  and,  to  do  Master  Simon  justice,  he  performs  this 
part  of  his  functions  with  great  alacrity.  Indeed,  I  have  been 
entertained  with  the  mixture  of  bustle,  importance,  and  kind- 
heartedness  which  he  displays.  He  is  of  too  vivacious  a  tem- 
perament to  comfort  the  afflicted  by  sitting  down,  moping  and 
whining,  and  blowing  noses  in  concert ;  but  goes  whisking 
about  like  a  sparrow,  chirping  consolation  into  every  hole  and 
corner  of  the  village.  I  have  seen  an  old  woman,  in  a  red  cloak, 
hold  him  for  half  an  hour  together  with  some  long  phthisical 
tale  of  distress,  which  Master  Simon  listened  to  with  many  a 
bob  of  the  head,  smack  of  his  dog- whip,  and  other  symptoms  of 
impatience,  though  he  afterwards  made  a  most  faithful  and 
circumstantial  report  of  the  case  to  the  Squire.  I  have  watched 
him,  too,  during  one  of  his  pop  visits  into  the  cottage  of  a 
superannuated  villager,  who  is  a  pensioner  of  the  Squire,  where 
he  fidgeted  about  the  room  without  sitting  down,  made  many 
excellent  off-hand  reflections  with  the  old  invalid,  who  was 


VILLAGE   WORTHIES.  177 

proppeu  up  in  his  chair,  about  the  shortness  of  life,  the  cer- 
tainty of  death,  and  the  necessity  of  preparing  for  "  that  awful 
change  ; "  quoted  several  texts  of  Scripture  very  incorrectly,  but 
much  to  the  edification  of  the  cottager's  wife ;  and  cm.  coming 
out,  pinched  the  daughter's  rosy  cheek,  and  wondered  what 
was  in  the  young  men  that  such  a  pretty  face  did  not  get  a 
husband. 

He  has  also  his  cabinet  counsellors  in  the  village,  with  whon? 
he  is  very  busy  just  now,  preparing  for  the  May -day  ceremonies. 
Among  these  is  the  village  tailor,  a  pale-faced  fellow,  who  playa 
the  clarinet  in  the  church  choir ;  and,  being  a  great  musical 
genius,  has  frequent  meetings  of  the  band  at  his  house,  where 
they  '  make  night  hideous  "  by  their  concerts,.  He  is,  in  con- 
sequence, high  in  favor  with  Master  Simon ;  and,  through  his 
influence,  has  the  making,  or  rather  marring,  of  all  the  liveries 
of  the  Hall ;  which  generally  look  as  though  they  had  been  cut 
out  by  one  of  those  scientific  tailors  of  the  Flying  Island  of 
Laputa,  who  took  measure  of  their  customers  with  a  quadrant. 
The  tailor,  in  fact,  might  rise  to  be  one  of  the  moneyed  men  of 
the  village,  were  he  not  rather  too  prone  to  gossip,  and  keep 
holidays,  and  give  concerts,  and  blow  all  his  substance,  real 
and  personal,  throuun  his  clarinet;  which  literally  keeps  him 
poor,  both  in  body  and  estate.  He  has  for  the  present  thrown 
by  all  his  regular  work,  and  suffered  the  breeches  of  the  village 
to  go  unmade  and  unmended,  while  he  is  occupied  in  making 
garlands  of  parti-colored  rags,  in  imitation  of  flowers,  for  the 
decoration  of  the  May-pole. 

Another  of  Master  Simon's  counsellors  is  the  apothecary,  a 
short  and  rather  fat  man,  with  a  pair  of  prominent  eyes,  that 
diverge  like  those  cf  a  lobster.  He  is  the  village  wise  man ; 
very  sententious,  and  full  of  profound  remarks  on  shallow 
subjects.  Master  Simon  often  quotes  his  sayings,  and  men- 
tions him  as  rather  an  extraordinary  man  ;  and  even  consults 
him  occasionally,  in  desperate  cases  of  the  dogs  and  horses. 
Indeed,  he  seems  to  have  been  overwhelmed  by  the  apothecary's 
philosophy,  which  is  exactly  one  observation  deep,  consisting 
of  indisputable  maxims,  such  as  may  be  gathered  from  the 
mottoes  of  tobacco-boxes.  I  had  a  specimen  of  his  philosophy, 
in  my  very  first  conversation  with  him ;  in  the  course  of  which 
he  observed,  with  great  solemnity  and  emphasis,  that  "man  is 
a  compound  of  wisdom  and  folly  ; ' '  upon  which  Master  Simon, 
who  had  hold  of  my  arm,  pressed  very  hard  upon  it,  am* 
whispered  in  my  ear  "  That's  a  devilish  shrewd  remark !  " 


178  BRAC&BRIDGE  HALL. 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

There  will  no  mosse  stick  to  the  stone  of  Sisiphus,  no  grasse  hang  on  the  heele* 
of  Mercury,  no  butter  cleave  on  the  bread  of  a  traveller.  For  as  the  eagle  at  every 
flight  loseth  a  feather,  which  maketh  her  bauld  in  her  age,  so  the  traveller  In  every 
country  loseth  some  fleece,  which  maketh  him  a  beggar  in  his  youth,  by  buying  that 
for  a  pound  which  he  cannot  sell  again  for  a  penny —  repentance.  — LILLY'S  Eupliues. 

AMONG  the  worthies  of  the  village  that  enjoy  the  peculiar 
confidence  of  Master  Simon,  is  one  who  has  struck  my  fancy 
so  much  that  I  have  thought  him  worthy  of  a  separate  notice. 
It  is  Slingsby,  the  schoolmaster,  a  thin,  elderly  man,  rather 
threadbare  and  slovenly,  somewhat  indolent  in  manner,  and 
with  an  easy,  good-humored  look,  not  often  met  with  in  his 
craft.  I  have  been  interested  in  his  favor  by  a  few  anecdotes 
which  I  have  picked  up  concerning  him. 

He  is  a  native  of  the  village,  and  was  a  contemporary  and 
playmate  of  Beady-Mouey  Jack  in  the  days  of  their  boyhood. 
Indeed,  they  carried  on  a  kind  of  league  of  mutual  good  offices. 
Slingsby  was  rather  puny,  and  withal  somewhat  of  a  coward, 
but  very  apt  at  his  learning ;  Jack,  on  the  contrary,  was  a  bully- 
boj-  out  of  doors,  but  a  sad  laggard  at  his  books.  Slingsby 
helped  Jack,  therefore,  to  all  his  lessons ;  Jack  fought  all 
Slingsby's  battles ;  and  they  were  inseparable  friends.  This 
mutual  kindness  continued  even  after  they  left  the  school,  not- 
withstanding the  dissimilarity  of  their  characters.  Jack  took  to 
ploughing  and  reaping,  and  prepared  himself  to  till  his  paternal 
acres ;  while  the  other  loitered  negligently  on  in  the  path  of 
learning,  until  he  penetrated  even  into  the  confines  of  Latin 
and  mathematics. 

In  an  unlucky  hour,  however,  he  took  to  reading  voyages 
and  travels,  and  was  smitten  with  a  desire  to  see  the  world. 
This  desire  increased  upon  him  as  he  grew  up  ;  so,  early  one 
bright,  sunny  morning,  he  put  all  his  effects  in  a  knapsack, 
slung  it  on  his  back,  took  staff  in  hand,  and  called  in  his  wVy 
to  take  leave  of  his  early  schoolmate.  Jack  was  just  going 
out  with  the  plough :  the  friends  shook  hands  over  the  farm- 
house gate  ;  Jack  drove  his  team  a-field,  and  Slingsby  whistled, 
"Over  the  hills  and  far  away,"  and  sallied  forth  gayly  to  "seek 
his  fortune." 

Years  and  years  passed  by,  and  young  Tom  Slingsby  was 
forgotten ;  when,  one  mellow  Sunday  afternoon  in  autumn,  a 
thin  man,  somewhat  advanced  in  life,  with  a  coat  out  at  elbows, 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER.  179 

a  pair  of  old  nankeen  gaiters,  and  a  few  things  tied  in  a  hand- 
kerchief and  slung  on  the  end  of  a  stick,  was  seen  loitering 
through  the  village.  He  appeared  to  regard  several  houses 
attentively,  to  peer  into  the  windows  that  were  open,  to  eye 
the  villagers  wistfully  as  they  returned  from  church,  and  then 
to  pass  some  time  in  the  church-yard  reading  the  tombstones. 

At  length  he  found  his  way  to  the  farm-house  of  Ready- 
Money  Jack,  but  paused  ere  he  attempted  the  wicket ;  contem- 
plating the  picture  of  substantial  independence  before  him.  In 
the  porch  of  the  house  sat  Ready-Money  Jack,  in  his  Sunday 
dress ;  with  his  hat  upon  his  head,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
and  his  tankard  before  him,  the  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed. 
Beside  him  lay  his  fat  house-dog.  The  varied  sounds  of  poultry 
were  heard  from  the  well-stocked  farm-yard ;  the  bees  hummed 
from  their  hives  in  the  garden ;  the  cattle  lowed  in  the  rich 
meadow ;  while  the  crammed  barns  and  ample  stacks  bore 
proof  of  an  abundant  harvest. 

The  stranger  opened  the  gate  and  advanced  dubiously  toward 
the  house.  The  mastiff  growled  at  the  sight  of  the  suspicious- 
looking  intruder ;  but  was  immediately  silenced  by  his  master, 
who,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  awaited  with  inquiring 
aspect  the  address  of  this  equivocal  personage.  The  stranger 
eyed  old  Jack  for  a  moment,  so  portly  in  his  dimensions,  and 
decked  out  in  gorgeous  apparel ;  then  cast  a  glance  upon  his 
own  thread-bare  and  starveling  condition,  and  the  scanty  bundle 
which  he  held  in  his  hand ;  then  giving  his  shrunk  waistcoat 
a  twitch  to  make  it  meet  its  receding  waistband,  and  casting 
another  look,  half  sad,  half  humorous,  at  the  sturdy  yeoman, 
"I  suppose,"  said  he,  "Mr.  Tibbets,  you  have  forgot  old 
times  and  old  playmates." 

The  latter  gazed  at  him  with  scrutinizing  look,  but  acknowl- 
edged that  he  had  no  recollection  of  him. 

"  Like  enough,  like  enough,"  said  the  stranger,  "  everybody 
seems  to  have  forgotten  poor  Slingsby  !  " 

"  Why,  no,  sure  !  it  can't  be  Tom  Slingsby?  " 

"Yes,  but  it  is,  though!  "  replied  the  stranger,  shaking  his 
head. 

Ready-Money  Jack  was  on  his  feet  in  a  twinkling,  thrust  out 
his  hand,  gave  his  ancient  crony  the  gripe  of  a  giant,  and  slap- 
ping the  other  hand  on  a  bench,  "  Sit  down  there,"  cried  he, 
"  Tom  Slingsby!  " 

A  long  conversation  ensued  about  old  times,  while  Slingsby 
was  regaled  with  the  best  cheer  that  the  farm-house  afforded  ; 
for  he  was  hungry  as  well  as  wayworn,  and  had  the  keen 


180  BBACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

appetite  of  a  poor  pedestrian.  The  early  playmates  then 
talked  over  their  subsequent  lives  and  adventures.  Jack 
had  but  little  to  relate,  and  was  never  good  at  a  long  story. 
A  prosperous  life,  passed  at  home,  has  little  incident  for  narra- 
tive ;  it  is  only  poor  devils,  that  are  tossed  about  the  world, 
that  are  the  true  heroes  of  story.  Jack  had  stuck  by  the 
paternal  farm,  followed  the  same  plough  that  his  forefathers 
had  driven,  and  had  waxed  richer  and  richer  as  he  grew  older. 
As  to  Tom  Slingsby,  he  was  an  exemplification  of  the  old 
proverb,  "a  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss."  He  had  sought 
his  fortune  about  the  world,  without  ever  finding  it,  being  a 
thing  oftener  found  at  home  than  abroad.  He  had  been  in  all 
kinds  of  situations,  and  had  learned  a  dozen  different  modes 
of  making  a  living ;  but  had  found  his  way  back  to  his  native 
village  rather  poorer  than  when  he  left  it,  his  knapsack  having 
dwindled  down  to  a  scanty  bundle. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  the  Squire  was  passing  by  the  farm- 
house that  very  evening,  and  called  there,  as  is  often  his 
custom.  He  found  the  two  schoolmates  still  gossiping  in  the 
porch,  and  according  to  the  good  old  Scottish  song,  "  taking  a 
cup  of  kindness  yet,  for  auld  lang  syne."  The  Squire  was 
struck  by  the  contrast  in  appearance  and  fortunes  of  these 
early  playmates.  Ready-Money  Jack,  seated  in  lordly  state, 
surrounded  by  the  good  things  of  this  life,  with  golden  guineas 
hanging  to  his  very  watch-chain,  and  the  poor  pilgrim  Slingsby, 
thin  as  a  weasel,  with  all  his  worldly  effects,  his  bundle,  hat, 
and  walking-staff,  lying  on  the  ground  beside  him. 

The  good  Squire's  heart  warmed  towards  the  luckless  cos- 
mopolite, for  he  is  a  little  prone  to  like  such  half-vagrant  charac- 
ters. He  cast  about  in  his  mind  how  he  should  contrive  once 
more  to  anchor  Slingsby  in  his  native  village.  Honest  Jack 
had  already  offered  him  a  present  shelter  under  his  roof,  in 
spite  of  the  hints,  and  winks,  and  half  remonstrances  of  the 
shrewd  Dame  Tibbets ;  but  how  to  provide  for  his  permanent 
maintenance,  was  the  question.  Luckily  lJie_Sqinre  bethought 
himself  that  the  village  school  was  without  a  teacher.  A  little 
further  conversation  convinced  him  that  Slingsby  was  as  fit  for 
that  as  for  any  thing  else,  and  in  a  day  or  two  he  was  seen 
swaying  the  rod  of  empire  in  the  very  school-house  where  he 
had  often  been  horsed  in  the  days  of  his  boyhood. 

Here  he  has  remained  for  several  years,  and,  being  honored 
by  the  countenance  of  the  Squire,  and  the  fast  friendship  of 
Mr.  Tibbets,  he  has  grown  into  much  importance  and  consid- 
eration in  the  village.  I  am  told,  however,  that  he  still  shows, 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER.  181 

now  and  then,  a  degree  of  restlessness,  and  a  disposition  to 
rove  abroad  again,  and  see  a  little  more  of  the  world  ;  an  incli- 
nation which  seems  particularly  to  haunt  him  about  spring-time. 
There  is  nothing  so  difficult  to  conquer  as  the  vagrant  humor, 
when  once  it  has  been  fully  indulged. 

Since  I  have  heard  these  anecdotes  of  poor  Slingsby,  I  have 
more  than  once  mused  upon  the  picture  presented  by  him  and 
his  schoolmate,  Ready-Money  Jack,  on  their  coming  together 
again  after  so  long  a  separation.  It  is  difficult  to  determine 
between  lots  in  life,  where  each  one  is  attended  with  its  peculiar 
discontents.  He  who  never  leaves  his  home  repines  at  his 
monotonous  existence,  and  envies  the  traveller,  whose  life  is  a 
constant  tissue  of  wonder  and  adventure ;  while  he  who  is 
tossed  about  the  world,  looks  back  with  many  a  sigh  to  the 
safe  and  quiet  shore  which  he  has  abandoned.  I  cannolh 
thinking,  however,  that  the  man  Who  stays  at  home,  £ind  cul- 
tivates the  comforts  and  pleasures  4aily  springing  up  around 
him,  stands  the  best  chance  for  happiness.  There  is' nothing  so 
fascinating  to  a  young  mind  as  the  idea  of  travelling ;  and  there 
is  very  witchcraft  in  the  old  phrase  found  in  every  nursery 
tale,  of  "  going  to  seek  one's  fortune."  A  continual  change  of 
place,  and  change  of  object,  promises  a  continual  succession  of 
adventure  and  gratification  of  curiosity.  But  there  is  a  limit 
to  all  our  enjoyments,  and  every  desire  bears  its  death  in  its  very 
gratification.  Curiosity  languishes  under  repeated  stimulants, 
novelties  cease  to  excite  surprise,  until  at  length  we  cannot 
wonder  even  at  a  miracle. 

He  who  has  sallied  forth  into  the  world,  like  poor  Slingsby, 
full  of  sunny  anticipations,  finds  too  soon  how  different  the  dis- 
tant scene  becomes  when  visited.  The  smooth  place  roughens 
as  he  approaches ;  the  wild  place  becomes  tame  and  barren  ;  the 
fairy  tints  which  beguiled  him  on,  still  fly  to  the  distant  hill,  or 
gather  upon  the  land  he  has  left  behind  ;  and  every  part  of  the 
landscape  seems  greener  than  the  spot  he  stands  on. 


182  to&ACEB&lDGE  HALL. 


THE  SCHOOL. 

Bnt  to  come  down  from  great  men  and  higher  matters  to  my  little  children  and  poor 
achool-houge  again;  I  will,  God  willing,  go  forward  orderly,  as  I  purposed,  to  instruct 
children  and  young  men  both  for  learning  and  manners.  —  ROGER  ASCHAM. 

HAVING  given  the  reader  a  slight  sketch  of  the  village  school- 
master, he  may  be  curious  to  learn  something  concerning  his 
school.  As  the  Squire  takes  much  interest  in  the  education  of 
the  neighboring  children,  he  put  into  the  hands  of  the  teacher, 
on  first  installing  him  in  office,  a  copy  of  Roger  Ascham's 
Schoolmaster,  and  advised  him,  moreover,  to  con  over  ^hat 
portion  of  old  Peacham  which  treats  of  the  duty  of  masters, 
and  which  condemns  the  favorite  method  of  making  boys  wise 
by  flagellation. 

He  exhorted  Slingsby  not  to  break  down  or  depress  the  free 
spirit  of  the  boys,  by  harshness  and  slavish  fear,  but  to  lead 
them  freely  and  joyously  on  in  the  path  of  knowledge,  making 
it  pleasant  and  desirable  in  their  eyes.  He  wished  to  see  the 
youth  trained  up  in  the  manners  and  habitudes  of  the  peasantry 
of  the  good  old  times,  and  thus  to  lay  a  foundation  for  the 
s  accomplishment  of  his  favorite  object,  the  revival  of  old  English 
customs  and  character.  He  recommended  that  all  the  ancient 
holidays  should  be  observed,  and  the  sports  of  the  boys,  in 
their  hours  of  play,  regulated  according  to  the  standard  au- 
thorities laid  down  in  Strutt,  a  copy  of  whose  invaluable  work, 
decorated  with  plates,  was  deposited  in  the  school- house.  Above 
all,  he  exhorted  the  pedagogue  to  abstain  from  the  use  of  birch, 
an  instrument  of  instruction  which  the  good  Squire  regards  as 
fit  only  for  the  coercion  of  brute  natures  that  cannot  be  reasoned 
with. 

Mr.  Slingsby  has  followed  the  Squire's  instructions,  to  the 
.best  of  his  disposition  and  ability.  He  never  flogs  the  boys, 
because  he  is  too  easy,  good-humored  a  creature  to  inflict  pain 
on  a  worm.  He  is  bountiful  in  holidays,  because  he  loves  holi- 
days himself,  and  has  a  sympathy  with  the  urchins'  impatience 
of  confinement,  from  having  divers  times  experienced  its  irk- 
someness  during  the  time  that  he  was  seeing  the  world.  As  to 
sports  and  pastimes,  the  boys  are  faithfully  exercised  in  all  that 
are  on  record,  quoits,  races,  prison-bars,  tipcat,  trap-ball,  bandy- 
ball,  wrestling,  leaping,  and  what  not.  The  only  misfortune 
is,  that  having  banished  the  birch,  houest  JSliugsby  has  not 


TUE    SCHOOL.  183 

studied  Roger  Ascham  sufficiently  to  find  out  a  substitute ;  or 
rather,  he  has  not  the  management  in  his  nature  to  apply  one ; 
his  school,  therefore,  though  one  of  the  happiest,  is  one  of  the 
most  unruly  in  the  country ;  and  never  was  a  pedagogue  more 
liked,  or  less  heeded  by  his  disciples,  than  Sliugsby. 

He  has  lately  taken  a  coadjutor  worthy  of  himself,  being 
another  stray  sheep  returned  to  the  village  fold.  This  is  no 
other  than  the  soji  of  the  musical  tailor,  who  had  bestowed 
some  cost  upon  his  education,  hoping  one  day  to  see  him  ar- 
rive at  the  dignity  of  an  exciseman,  or  at  least  of  a  parish  clerk. 
The  lad  grew  up,  however,  as  idle  and  musical  as  his  father; 
and,  being  captivated  by  the  drum  and  fife  of  a  recruiting 
party,  followed  them  off  to  the  army.  He  returned  not  long 
since,  out  of  money,  and  out  at  elbows,  the  prodigal  sou  of 
the  village.  He  remained  for  some  time  lounging  about  the 
place  in  half-tattered  soldier's  dress,  with  a  foraging-cap  ou  one 
side  of  his  head,  jerking  stones  across  the  brook,  or  loitering 
about  the  tavern-door,  a  burden  to  his  father,  and  regarded 
with  great  coldness  by  all  warm  householders. 

Something,  however,  drew  honest  Slingsby  towards  the  youth. 
It  might  be  the  kindness  he  bore  to  his  father,  who  is  one  of  the 
schoolmaster's  great  cronies  ;  it  might  be  that  secret  sympathy 
which  draws  men  of  vagrant  propensities  towards  each  other ; 
for  there  is  something  truly  magnetic  in  the  vagabond  feeling ; 
or  it  might  be,  that  he  remembered  the  time  when  he  himself 
ha/1  come  back,  like  this  youngster,  a  wreck,  to  his  native  place. 
At  any  rate,  whatever  the  motive,  Slingsby  drew  towards  the 
youth.  They  had  many  conversations  in  the  village  tap-room 
about  foreign  parts  and  the  various  scenes  and  places  they  had 
witnessed  during  their  wayfaring  about  the  world.  The  more 
Slingsby  talked  with  him,  the  more  he  found  him  to  his  taste ; 
and  finding  him  almost  as  learned  as  himself,  he  forthwith  en- 
gaged him  as  an,  assistant,  or  usher,  in  the  school.  Under  such 
admirable  tuition,  tlie~school,  as  may  be  supposed,  flourishes 
apace  ;  and  if  the  scholars  do  not  become  versed  in  all  the  holi- 
day accomplishments  of  the  good  old  times,  to  the  Squire's 
heart's  content,  it  will  not  be  the  fault  of  their  teachers.  The 
prodigal  son  has  become  almost  as  popular  among  the  boys  as 
the  pedagogue  himself.  His  instructions  are  not  limited  to 
school  hours  ;  and  having  inherited  the  musical  taste  and  talents 
of  his  father,  he  has  bitten  the  whole  school  with  the  mania. 
He  is  a  great  hand  at  beating  a  drum,  which  is  often  heard  rum- 
bling from  the  rear  of  the  school-house.  He  is  teaching  half 
the  boys  of  the  village,  also-  to  plav  the  fife,  and  the  pandean 


184  BBACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

pipes  ;  and  they  weary  the  whole  neighborhood  with  their  vague 
pipings,  as  they  sit  perched  on  stiles,  or  loitering  about  the 
barn-doors  in  the  evenings.  Among  the  other  exercises  of  the 
school,  also,  he  has  introduced  the  ajjcjent  |irj;  of  archery,  one 
of  the  Squire's  favorite  themes,  with  such  success,  that  the 
whipsters  roam  in  truant  bands  about  the  neighborhood,  prac- 
tising with  their  bows  and  arrows  upon  the  birds  of  the  air,  and 
the  beasts  of  the  field ;  and  not  unfrequently  making  a  foray 
into  the  Squire's  domains,  to  the  great  indignation  of  the  game- 
keepers. In  a  word,  so  completely  are  the  ancient  English 
customs  and  habits  cultivated  at  this  school,  that  I  should  not 
be  surprised  if  the  Squire  should  live  to  see  one  of  his  poetic 
visions  realized,  and  a  brood  reared  up,  worthy  successors  to 
Kobin  Hood  and  his  merry  gang  of  outlaws. 


A  VILLAGE  POLITICIAN. 

I  am  a  rogue  if  I  do  not  think  I  was  designed  for  the  helm  of  state ;  I  am  so  full  of 
nimble  stratagems,  that  I  should  have  ordered  affairs,  and  carried  it  against  the  stream  of 
a  faction,  with  as  much  ease  as  a  skipper  would  laver  against  the  wind. —  The  Goblin*. 

IN  one  of  my  visits  to  the  village  with  Master  Simon,  he  pro- 
posed that  we  should  stop  at  the  inn,  which  he  wished  to  show 
me,  as  a  specimen  of  a  real  country  inn,  the  head-quarters  of  vil- 
lage gossip.  I  had  remarked  it  before,  in  my  perambulations 
about  the  place.  It  has  a  deep,  old-fashioned  porch,  leading  into 
a  large  hall,  which  serves  for  tap-room  and  travellers'-room ; 
having  a  wide  fireplace,  with  high-backed  settles  on  each  side, 
where  the  wise  men  of  the  village  gossip  over  their  ale,  and  hold 
their  sessions  during  the  long  winter  evenings.  The  landlord  is 
an  easy,  indolent  fellow,  shaped  a  little  like  one  of  his  own 
beer-barrels,  and  is  apt  to  stand  gossiping  at  his  own  door,  with 
his  wig  on  one  side,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whilst  his  wife 
and  daughter  attend  to  customers.  His  wife,  however,  is  fully 
competent  to  manage  the  establishment ;  and,  indeed,  from  long 
habitude,  rules  over  all  the  frequenters  of  the  tap-room  as  com- 
pletely as  if  they  were  her  dependants  and  not  her  patrons. 
Not  a  veteran  ale-bibber  but  pays  homage  to  her,  having,  no 
doubt,  often  been  in  her  arrears.  I  have  already  hinted  that 
she  is  on  very  good  terms  with  Ready-Money  Jack.  He  was  a 
sweetheart  of  ners  in  early  life,  and  has  always  countenanced 
the  tavern  on  her  account.  Indeed,  he  is  quite  the  "cock  of 
the  walk"  at  the  tap-room. 


4    VILLAGE   POLITICIAN.  185 

As  we  approached  the  inn,  we  heard  some  one  talking  with 
great  volubility,  and  distinguished  the  ominous  words,  "  taxes," 
"  poor's  rates,"  and  "  agricultural  distress."  It  proved  to  be 
a  thin,  loquacious  fellow,  who  had  penned  the  landlord  up  in  one 
corner  of  the  porch,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  as  usual, 
listening  with  an  air  of  the  most  vacant  acquiescence. 

The  sight  seemed  to  have  a  curious  effect  on  Master  Simon, 
as  he  squeezed  my  arm,  and,  altering  his  course,  sheered  wide 
of  the  porch,  as  though  he  had  not  had  any  idea  of  entering. 
This  evident  evasion  induced  me  to  notice  the  orator  more  par- 
ticularly. He  was  meagre,  but  active  in  his  make,  with  a  long, 
pale,  bilious  face ;  a  black  beard,  so  ill-shaven  as  to  leave  marks 
of  blood  on  his  shirt-collar ;  a  feverish  eye,  and  a  hat  sharpened 
up  at  the  sides,  into  a  most  pragmatical  shape.  He  had  a  news- 
paper in  his  hand,  and  seemed  to  be  commenting  on  its  contents, 
to  the  thorough  conviction  of  mine  host. 

At  sight  of  Master  Simon,  the  landlord  was  evidently  a  little 
flurried,  and  began  to  rub  his  hands,  edge  away  from  his  corner, 
and  make  several  profound  publican  bows ;  while  the  orator 
took  no  other  notice  of  my  companion  than  to  talk  rather  louder 
than  before,  and  with,  as  I  thought,  something  of  an  air  of  de- 
fiance. Master  Simon,  however,  as  I  have  before  said,  sheered 
off  from  the  porch,  and  passed  on,  pressing  my  arm  within  his, 
and  whispering,  as  we  got  by,  in  a  tone  of  awe  and  horror, 
"  That's  a  radical !  he  reads  Cobbett !  " 

I  endeavored  to  get  a  more  particular  account  of  him  from 
my  companion,  but  he  seemed  unwilling  even  to  talk  about 
him,  answering  only  in  general  terms,  that  he  was  "a  cursed 
busy  fellow,  that  had  a  confounded  trick  of  talking,  and  was 
apt  to  bother  one  about  the  national  debt,  and  such  nonsense  ;  " 
from  which  I  suspected  that  Master  Simon  had  been  rendered 
wary  of  him  by  some  accidental  encounter  on  the  field  of  argu- 
ment ;  for  these  radicals  are  continually  roving  about  in  quest 
of  wordy  warfare,  and  never  so  happy  as  when  they  can  tilt  a 
gentleman  logician  out  of  his  saddle. 

On  subsequent  inquiry,  my  suspicions  have  been  confirmed. 
I  find  the  radical  has  but  recently  found  his  way  into  the  village, 
where  he  threatens  to  commit  fearful  devastations  with  his 
doctrines.  He  has  already  made  two  or  three  complete  con- 
verts, or  new  lights ;  has  shaken  the  faith  of  several  others ; 
and  has  grievously  puzzled  the  brains  of  many  of  the  oldest 
villagers,  who  had  never  thought  about  politics,  nor  scarce  any 
thing  else,  during  their  whole  lives. 

He  is  lean  and  meagre  from  the  constant  restlessness  of  mind 


186  BRACEBRIDGE   HALL. 

and  body ;  worrying  about  with  newspapers  and  pamphlets  in 
his  pockets,  which  he  is  ready  to  pull  out  on  all  occasions.  He 
has  shocked  several  of  the  stanchest  villagers,  by  talking 
lightly  of  the  Squire,  and  his  family ;  and  hinting  that  it  would 
be  better  the  park  should  be  cut  up  into  small  farms  and  kitchen- 
gardens,  or  feed  good  mutton  instead  of  worthless  deer. 

He  is  a  great  thorn  in  the  side  of  the  Squire,  who  is  sadly 
afraid  that  he  will  introduce  politics  into  the  village,  and  turn 
it  into  an  unhappy,  thinking  community.  He  is  a  still  greater 
grievance  to  Master  Simon,  who  has  hitherto  been  able  to  sway 
the  political  opinions  of  the  place,  without  much  cost  of  learn- 
ing or  logic ;  but  has  been  much  puzzled  of  late  to  weed  out  the 
doubts  and  heresies  already  sown  by, this  champion  of  reform. 
Indeed,  the  latter  has  taken  complete  command  at  the  tap-room 
of  the  tavern,  not  so  much  because  he  has  convinced,  as  be- 
cause he  has  out-talked  all  the  old-established  oracles.  The 
apothecary,  with  all  his  philosophy,  was  as  naught  before  him. 
He  has  convinced  and  converted  the  landlord  at  least  a  dozen 
times ;  who,  however,  is  liable  to  be  convinced  and  converted 
the  other  way,  by  the  next  person  with  whom  he  talks.  It  is 
true  the  radical  has  a  violent  antagonist  in  the  landlady,  who  is 
vehemently  loyal,  and  thoroughly  devoted  to  the  king,  Master 
Simon,  and  the  Squire.  She  now  and  then  comes  out  upon  the 
reformer  with  all  the  fierceness  of  a  cat-o'-mountain,  and  does 
not  spare  her  own  soft-headed  husband,  for  listening  to  what 
she  terms  such  "low-lived  politics."  What  makes  the  good 
woman  the  more  violent,  is  the  perfect  coolness  with  which  the 
radical  listens  to  her  attacks,  drawing  his  face  up  into  a  pro- 
voking supercilious  smile ;  and  when  she  has  talked  herself  out 
of  breath,  quietly  asking  her  for  a  taste  of  her  home-brewed. 

The  only  person  in  any  way  a  match  for  this  redoubtable 
politician,  is  Ready-Money  Jack  Tibbets,  who  maintains  his 
stand  in  the  tap-room,  in  defiance  of  the  radical  and  all  his 
works.  Jack  is  one  of  the  most  loyal  men  in  the  country, 
without  being  able  to  reason  about  the  matter.  He  has  that 
admirable  quality  for  a  tough  arguer,  also,  that  he  never  knows 
when  he  is  beat.  He  has  half-a-dozen  old  maxims  which  he 
advances  on  all  occasions,  and  though  his  antagonist  may  over- 
turn them  never  so  often,  yet  he  always  brings  them  anew  to 
the  field.  He  is  like  the  robber  in  Ariosto,  who,  though  his 
head  might  be  cut  off  half-a-hundred  times,  yet  whipped  it  on 
his  shoulders  again  in  a  twinkling,  and  returned  as  sound  a 
man  as  ever  to  the  charge. 

Whatever  does  not  square  with  Jack's  simple  and  obvious 


THE  ROOKERY.  187 

creed,  he  sets  down  for  "  French  politics ;  "  for,  notwithstand- 
ing the  peace,  he  cannot  be  persuaded  that  the  French  are  not 
still  laying  plots  to  ruin  the  nation,  and  to  get  hold  of  the  Bank 
of  England.  The  radical  attempted  to  overwhelm  him,  one 
day,  by  a  long  passage  from  a  newspaper ;  but  Jack  neither 
reads  nor  believes  in  newspapers.  In  reply,  he  gave  him  one  of 
the  stanzas  which  he  has  by  heart  from  his  favorite,  and  indeed 
only  author,  old  Tusser,  and  which  he  calls  his  Golden  Rules : 

Leave  princes'  affairs  undescanted  on, 
And  tend  to  such  doings  as  stand  thee  upon; 
Fear  God,  and  offend  not  the  king  nor  his  laws, 
And  keep  thyself  out  of  the  magistrate's  claws. 

When  Tibbets  had  pronounced  this  with  great  emphasis,  he 
pulled  out  a  well- filled  leathern  purse,  took  out  a  handful  of 
gold  and  silver,  paid  his  score  at  the  bar  with  great  punctuality, 
returned  his  money,  piece  by  piece,  into  his  purse,  his  purse 
into  his  pocket,  which  he  buttoned  up ;  and  then,  giving  his 
cudgel  a  stout  thump  upon  the  floor,  and  bidding  the  radical 
"good-morning,  sir!  "  with  the  tone  of  a  man  who  conceives 
he  has  completely  done  for  his  antagonist,  he  walked  with  lion- 
like  gravity  out  of  the  house.  Two  or  three  of  Jack's  admirers 
who  were  present,  and  had  been  afraid  to  take  the  field  them- 
selves, looked  upon  this  as  a  perfect  triumph,  and  winked  at 
each  other  when  the  radical's  back  was  turned.  "Ay,  ay!" 
said  mine  host,  as  soon  as  the  radical  was  out  of  hearing,  "  let 
old  Jack  alone  ;  I'll  warrant  he'll  give  him  his  own  !  " 


THE  ROOKERY. 

But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 

In  still  repeated  circles,  screaming  loud ; 

The  jay,  the  pie,  and  e'en  the  boding  owl, 

That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me.  —  COWTEB. 

IN  a  grove  of  tall  oaks  and  beeches,  that  crowns  a  terrace- 
walk,  just  on  the  skirts  of  the  garden,  is  an  ancient  rookery, 
which  is  one  of  the  most  important  provinces  in  the  Squire's 
rural  domains.  The  old  gentleman  sets  great  store  by  his 
rooks,  and  will  not  suffer  one  of  them  to  be  killed :  in  conse- 
quence of  which,  they  have  increased  amazingly ;  the  tree-tops 
are  loaded  with  their  nests  ;  they  have  encroached  upon  the  great 


188  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

avenue,  and  have  even  established,  in  tunes  long  past,  a  colony 
among  the  elms  and  pines  of  the  church-yard,  which,  like  other 
distant  colonies,  has  already  thrown  off  allegiance  to  the  mother 
country. 

The  rooks  are  looked  upon  by  the  Squire  as  a  very  ancient 
and  honorable  line  of  gentry,  highly  aristocratical  in  their 
notions,  fond  of  place,  and  attached  to  church  and  state ;  as 
their  building  so  loftily,  keeping  about  churches  and  cathedrals, 
and  in  the  venerable  groves  of  old  castles  and  manor-houses, 
sufficiently  manifests.  The  good  opinion  thus  expressed  by 
the  Squire  put  me  upon  observing  more  narrowly  these  very 
respectable  birds,  for  I  confess,  to  my  shame,  I  had  been  apt  to 
confound  them  with  their  cousins-gennan  the  crows,  to  whom, 
at  the  first  glance,  they  bear  so  great  a  family  resemblance. 
Nothing,  it  seems,  could  be  more  unjust  or  injurious  than  such 
a  mistake.  The  rooks  and  crows  are,  among  the  feathered 
tribes,  what  the  Spaniards  and  Portuguese  are  among  nations, 
the  least  loving,  in  consequence  of  their  neighborhood  and 
similarity.  The  rooks  are  old  established  housekeepers,  high- 
minded  gentlefolk,  that  have  had  their  hereditary  abodes  time 
out  of  mind ;  but  as  to  the  poor  crows,  they  are  a  kind  of 
vagabond,  predatory,  gypsy  race,  roving  about  the  country  with- 
out any  settled  home ;  "  their  hands  are  against  everybody, 
and  everybody's  against  them;"  and  they  are  gibbeted  in 
every  corn-field.  Master  Simon  assures  me  that  a  female  rook, 
who  should  so  far  forget  herself  as  to  consort  with  a  crow, 
would  inevitably  be  disinherited,  and  indeed  would  be  totally 
discarded  by  all  her  genteel  acquaintance. 

The  Squire  is  very  watchful  over  the  interests  and  concerns 
of  his  sable  neighbors.  As  to  Master  Simon,  he  even  pretends 
to  know  many  of  them  by  sight,  and  to  have  given  names  to 
them ;  he  points  out  several,  which  he  says  are  old  heads  of 
families,  and  compares  them  to  worthy  old  citizens,  beforehand 
in  the  world,  that  wear  cocked  hats,  and  silver  buckles  in 
their  shoes.  Notwithstanding  the  protecting  benevolence  of 
the  Squire,  and  their  being  residents  in  his  empire,  they  seem 
to  acknowledge  no  allegiance,  and  to  hold  no  intercourse  or 
intimacy.  Their  airy  tenements  are  built  almost  out  of  the 
reach  of  gun-shot ;  and,  notwithstanding  their  vicinity  to  the 
Hall,  they  maintain  a  most  reserved  and  distrustful  shyness  of 
mankind. 

There  is  one  season  of  the  year,  however,  which  brings  all 
birds  in  a  manner  to  a  level,  and  tames  the  pride  of  the  loftiest 
high-flyer  —  which  is  the  season  of  building  their  nests.  This 


THE    ROOKERY.  189 

takes  place  early  in  the  spring,  when  the  forest  trees  first  begin 
to  show  then-  buds,  and  the  long,  withy  ends  of  the  branches  to 
turn  green ;  when  the  wild  strawberry,  and  other  herbage  of 
the  sheltered  woodlands,  put  forth  their  tender  and  tinted 
leaves ;  and  the  daisy  and  the  primrose  peep  from  under  the 
hedges.  At  this  time  there  is  a  general  bustle  among  the 
feathered  tribes ;  an  incessant  fluttering  about,  and  a  cheerful 
chirping ;  indicative,  like  the  germination  of  the  vegetable 
world,  of  the  reviving  life  and  fecundity  of  the  year. 

It  is  then  that  the  rooks  forget  their  usual  stateliness  and 
their  shy  and  lofty  habits.  Instead  of  keeping  up  in  the  high 
regions  of  the  air,  swinging  on  the  breezy  tree-tops,  and  looking 
down  with  sovereign  contempt  upon  the  humble  crawlers  upon 
earth,  they  are  fain  to  throw  off  for  a.  time  the  dignity  of  the 
gentleman,  to  come  down  to  the  ground,  and  put  on  the  pains- 
taking and  industrious  character  of  a  laborer.  They  now  lose 
their  natural  shyness,  become  fearless  and  familiar,  and  may 
be  seen  plying  about  in  all  directions,  with  an  air  of  great 
assiduity,  in  search  of  building  materials.  Every  now  and  then 
your  path  will  be  crossed  by  one  of  these  busy  old  gentlemen, 
worrying  about  with  awkward  gait,  as  if  troubled  with  the  gout, 
or  with  corns  on  his  toes,  casting  about  many  a  prying  look, 
turning  down  first  one  eye,  then  the  other,  in  earnest  considera- 
tion, upon  every  straw  he  meets  with ;  until,  espying  some 
mighty  twig,  large  enough  to  make  a  rafter  for  his  air-castle, 
he  will  seize  upon  it  with  avidity,  and  hurry  away  with  it  to 
the  tree-top ;  fearing,  apparently,  lest  you  should  dispute  with 
him  the  invaluable  prize. 

Like  other  castle-builders,  these  airy  architects  seem  rather 
fanciful  in  the  materials  with  which  the3r  build,  and  to  like 
those  most  which  come  from  a  distance.  Thus,  though  there 
are  abundance  of  dry  twigs  on  the  surrounding  trees,  yet  they 
never  think  of  making  use  of  them,  but  go  foraging  in  distant 
lands,  and  come  sailing  home,  one  by  one,  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  each  bearing  in  his  bill  some  precious  piece  of  timber. 

Nor  must  I  avoid  mentioning  what,  I  grieve  to  say,  rather 
derogates  from  the  grave  and  honorable  character  of  these 
ancient  gentlefolk ;  that,  during  the  architectural  season,  they 
are  subject  to  great  dissensions  among  themselves ;  that  they 
make  no  scruple  to  defraud  and  plunder  each  other ;  and  that 
sometimes  the  rookery  is  a  scene  of  hideous  brawl  and  commo- 
tion, in  consequence  of  some  delinquency  of  the  kind.  One  of 
the  partners  generally  remains  on  the  nest,  to  guard  it  from 
depredation,  and  I  have  seen  severe  contests,  when  some  sly 


190  BRACEBEIDGE    HALL. 

neighbor  has  endeavored  to  filch  away  a  tempting  rafter 
that  has  captivated  his  eye.  As  I  am  not  willing  hastily  to 
admit  any  suspicion  derogatory  to  the  general  character  of 
so  worshipful  a  people,  I  am  inclined  to  think  these  lar- 
cenies discountenanced  by  the  higher  classes,  and  even  rigor- 
ously punished  by  those  in  authority;  for  I  have  now  and 
then  seen  a  whole  gang  of  rooks  fall  upon  the  nest  of 
some  individual,  pull  it  all  to  pieces,  carry  off  the  spoils,  and 
even  buffet  the  luckless  proprietor.  I  have  concluded  this 
to  be  a  signal  punishment  inflicted  upon  him,  by  the  officers 
of  the  police,  for  some  pilfering  misdemeanor;  or,  perhaps, 
that  it  was  a  crew  of  bailiffs  carrying  an  execution  into  his 
house. 

I  have  been  amused  with  another  of  their  movements  during 
the  building  season.  The  steward  has  suffered  a  considerable 
number  of  sheep  to  graze  on  a  lawn  near  the  house,  somewhat 
to  the  annoyance  of  the  Squire,  who  thinks  this  an  innovation 
on  the  dignity  of  a  park,  which  ought  to  be  devoted  to  deer 
only.  Be  this  as  it  may,  there  is  a  green  knoll,  not  far  from 
the  drawing-room  window,  where  the  ewes  and  lambs  are  ac- 
customed to  assemble  towards  evening,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
setting  sun.  No  sooner  were  they  gathered  here,  at  the  time 
when  these  politic  birds  were  building,  than  a  stately  old  rook, 
who  Master  Simon  assured  me  was  the  chief  magistrate  of  this 
community,  would  settle  down  upon  the  head  of  one  of  the 
ewes,  who,  seeming  conscious  of  this  condescension,  would 
desist  from  grazing,  and  stand  fixed  in  motionless  reverence  of 
her  august  burden;  the  rest  of  the  rookery  would  then  come 
wheeling  down,  in  imitation  of  their  leader,  until  every  ewe 
had  two  or  three  of  them  cawing,  and  fluttering,  and  battling 
upon  her  back.  Whether  they  requited  the  submission  of  the 
sheep,  by  levying  a  contribution  upon  their  fleece  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  rookery,  I  am  not  certain;  though  I  presume  they 
followed  the  usual  custom  of  protecting  powers. 

The  latter  part  of  May  is  the  time  of  great  tribulation  among 
the  rookeries,  when  the  young  are  just  able  to  leave  the  nest, 
and  balance  themselves  on  the  neighboring  branches.  Now 
comes  on  the  season  of  "rook  shooting;  "  a  terrible  slaughter 
of  the  innocents.  The  Squire,  of  course,  prohibits  all  invasion 
of  the  kind  on  his  territories ;  but  I  am  told  that  a  lamentable 
havoc  takes  place  in  the  colony  about  the  old  church.  Upon 
this  devoted  commonwealth  the  village  charges  "  with  all 
its  chivalry."  Every  idle  wight,  lucky  enough  to  possess 
an  old  arun  or  blunderbuss,  together  with  all  the  archery  of 


THE   ROOKERY.  191 

Slingsby's  school,  takes  the  field  on  the  occasion.  In  vain  does 
the  little  parson  interfere,  or  remonstrate,  in  angry  tones  from 
his  study  window  that  looks  into  the  churchyard;  there  is  a 
continual  popping,  from  morning  till  night.  Being  no  great 
marksman,  their  shots  are  not  often  effective ;  but  every  now 
and  then,  a  great  shout  from  the  besieging  army  of  bumpkins 
makes  known  the  downfall  of  some  unlucky  squab  rook,  which 
comes  to  the  ground  with  the  emphasis  of  a  squashed  apple- 
dumpling. 

Nor  is  the  rookery  entirely  free  from  other  troubles  and 
disasters.  In  so  aristocratical  and  lofty-minded  a  community, 
which  boasts  so  much  ancient  blood  and  hereditary  pride,  it  is 
natural  to  suppose  that  questions  of  etiquette  will  sometimes 
arise  and  affairs  of  honor  ensue.  In  fact,  this  is  very  often 
the  case ;  bitter  quarrels  break  out  between  individuals,  which 
produce  sad  scufflings  on  the  tree-tops,  and  I  have  more  than 
once  seen  a  regular  duel  between  two  doughty  heroes  of  the 
rookery.  Their  field  of  battle  is  generally  the  air ;  and  their 
contest  is  managed  in  the  most  scientific  and  elegant  manner ; 
wheeling  round  and  round  each  other,  and  towering  higher  and 
higher,  to  get  the  vantage-ground,  until  they  sometimes  disap- 
pear in  the  clouds  before  the  combat  is  determined. 

They  have  also  fierce  combats  now  and  then  with  an  invading 
hawk,  and  will  drive  him  off  from  their  territories  by  a  posse 
comitatis.  They  are  also  extremely  tenacious  of  their  domains, 
and  will  suffer  no  other  bird  to  inhabit  the  grove  or  its  vicinity. 
A  very  ancient  and  respectable  old  bachelor  owl  had  for  a 
long  time  his  lodgings  in  a  corner  of  the  grove,  but  has  been 
fairly  ejected  by  the  rooks ;  and  has  retired,  disgusted  with  the 
world,  to  a  neighboring  wood,  where  he  leads  the  life  of  a 
hermit,  and  makes  nightly  complaints  of  his  ill-treatment. 

The  hoo tings  of  this  unhappy  gentleman  may  generally  be 
heard  in  the  still  evenings,  when  the  rooks  are  all  at  rest ;  and 
I  have  often  listened  to  them  of  a  moonlight  night  with  a  kind 
of  mysterious  gratification.  This  gray-bearded  misanthrope, 
of  course,  is  highly  respected  by  the  Squire ;  but  the  servants 
have  superstitious  notions  about  him,  and  it  would  be  difficult 
to  get  the  dairy-maid  to  venture  after  dark  near  to  the  wood 
which  he  inhabits. 

Beside  the  private  quarrels  of  the  rooks,  there  are  other  mis- 
fortunes to  which  they  are  liable,  and  which  often  bring  distress 
into  the  most  respectable  families  of  the  rookery.  Having  the 
true  baronial  spirit  of  the  good  old  feudal  times,  they  are  apt 
now  and  then  to  issue  forth  from  their  castles  on  a  foray,  and 


192  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

lay  the  plebeian  fields  of  the  neighboring  country  under  con- 
tribution ;  in  the  course  of  which  chivalrous  expeditions,  they 
now  and  then  get  a  shot  from  the  rusty  artillery  of  some  re- 
fractory farmer.  Occasionally,  too,  while  they  are  quietly 
taking  the  air  beyond  the  park  boundaries,  they  have  the 
incaution  to  come  within  reach  of  the  truant  bowmen  of 
Slingsby's  school,  and  receive  a  flight  shot  from  some  unlucky 
urchin's  arrow.  In  such  case,  the  wounded  adventurer  will 
sometimes  have  just  strength  enough  to  bring  himself  home, 
and,  giving  up  the  ghost  at  the  rookery,  will  hang  dangling  "  all 
abroad "  on  bough,  like  a  thief  on  a  gibbet  —  an  awful  warn- 
ing to  his  friends,  and  an  object  of  great  commiseration  to  the 
Squire. 

But,  maugre  all  these  untoward  incidents,  the  rooks  have, 
upon  the  whole,  a  happy  holiday  life  of  it.  When  their  young 
are  reared  and  fairly  launched  upon  their  native  element,  the 
air,  the  cares  of  the  old  folks  seem  over,  and  they  resume  all 
their  aristocratical  dignity  and  idleness.  I  have  envied  them 
the  enjoyment  which  they  appear  to  have  in  their  ethereal 
heights,  sporting  with  clamorous  exultation  about  their  lofty 
bowers;  sometimes  hovering  over  them,  sometimes  partially 
alighting  upon  the  topmost  branches,  and  there  balancing  with 
outstretched  wings  and  swinging  in  the  breeze.  Sometimes 
they  seem  to  take  a  fashionable  drive  to  the  church  and  amase 
themselves  by  circling  in  airy  rings  about  its  spire ;  at  other 
times  a  mere  garrison  is  left  at  home  to  mount  guard  in  their 
stronghold  at  the  grove,  while  the  rest  roam  abroad  to  enjoy 
the  fine  weather.  About  sunset  the  garrison  gives  notice  of 
their  return ;  their  faint  cawing  will  be  heard  from  a  great  dis- 
tance, and  they  will  be  seen  far  off  like  a  sable  cloud,  and  then 
nearer  and  nearer,  until  they  all  come  soaring  home.  Then 
they  perform  several  grand  circuits  in  the  air  over  the  Hall 
and  garden,  wheeling  closer  and  closer  until  they  gradually 
settle  down,  when  a  prodigious  cawing  takes  place,  as  though 
they  were  relating  their  day's  adventures. 

I  like  at  such  times  to  walk  about  these  dusky  groves,  and 
hear  the  various  sounds  of  these  airy  people  roosted  so  high 
above  me.  As  the  gloom  increases,  their  conversation  sub- 
sides, and  they  gradually  drop  asleep;  but  every  now  and 
then  there  is  a  querulous  note,  as  if  some  one  was  quarrel- 
ling for  a  pillow,  or  a  little  more  of  the  blanket.  It  is  late 
in  the  evening  before  they  completely  sink  to  repose,  and  then 
their  old  anchorite  neighbor,  the  owl,  begins  his  lonely  hootings 
from  Ms  bachelor's-hall  in  the  wood.  •  * 


HAY-DAT.  193 


MAY-DAY. 

It  la  the  choice  time  of  the  year, 

For  the  violets  now  appear ; 

Now  the  rose  receives  its  birth, 

And  pretty  primrose  decks  the  earth. 
Then  to  the  May-pole  come  away, 
For  it  is  now  a  holiday.  —  Acteon  and  Diana. 

As  I  was  lying  in  bed  this  morning,  enjoying  one  of  those 
half  dreams,  half  reveries,  which  are  so  pleasant  in  the  coun- 
try, when  the  birds  are  singing  about  the  window,  and  the 
sunbeams  peeping  through  the  curtains,  I  was  roused  by  the 
sound  of  music.  On  going  down-stairs  I  found  a  number  of 
villagers,  dressed  in  their  holiday  clothes,  bearing  a  pole  orna- 
mented with  garlands  and  ribbons,  and  accompanied  by  the 
village  band  of  music,  under  the  direction  of  the  tailor,  the  pale 
fellow  who  plays  on  the  clarinet.  They  had  all  sprigs  of  haw- 
thorn, or,  as  it  is  called,  "the  May,"  in  their  hats,  and  had 
brought  green  branches  and  flowers  to  decorate  the  Hall  door 
and  windows.  They  had  come  to  give  notice  that  the  May-pole 
was  reared  on  the  green,  and  to  invite  the  household  to  witness 
the  sports.  The  Hall,  according  to  custom,  became  a  scene  of 
hurry  and  delighted  confusion.  The  servants  were  all  agog 
with  May  and  music ;  and  there  was  no  keeping  either  the 
tongues  or  the  feet  of  the  maids  quiet,  who  were  anticipating 
the  sports  of  the  green  and  the  evening  dance. 

I  repaired  to  the  village  at  an  early  hour,  to  enjoy  the  merry- 
making. The  morning  was  pure  and  sunny,  such  as  a  May 
morning  is  always  described.  The  fields  were  white  with 
daisies,  the  hawthorn  was  covered  with  its  fragrant  blossoms, 
the  bee  hummed  about  every  bank,  and  the  swallow  played 
high  in  the  air  about  the  village  steeple.  It  was  one  of  those 
genial  days  when  we  seem  to  draw  in  pleasure  with  the  ve 
air  we  breathe,  and  to  feel  happy  we  know  not  why.  Who- 
ever has  felt  the  worth  of  worthy  man,  or  has  doted  on  lovely 
woman,  will,  on  such  a  day,  call  them  tenderly  to  mind,  an 
feel  his  heart  all  alive  with  long-buried  recollections.  -"For 
thenne,"  says  the  excellent  romance  of  King  Arthur,  "lovers 
call  ageyne  to  their  mynde  old  gentilnes  and  old  servyse,  and 
many  kind  dedes  that  were  forgotten  by  neglygence." 

Before  reaching  the  village,  I  saw  the  May-pole  towering 
above  the  cottages  with  its  gay  garlands  and  streamers,  and 


194  BEACEBRIDGE  BALL. 

heard  the  sound  of  music.  Booths  had  been  set  up  near  it, 
for  the  reception  of  company ;  and  a  bower  of  green  branches 
and  flowers  for  the  Queen  of  May,  a  fresh,  rosy-cheeked  girl  of 
the  village. 

A  band  of  morris-dancers  were  capering  on  the  green  in 
their  fantastic  dresses,  jingling  with  hawks'  bells,  with  a  boj 
dressed  up  as  Maid  Marian,  and  the  attendant  fool  rattling  his 
box  to  collect  contributions  from  the  bystanders.  The  gypsy- 
women  too  were  already  plying  their  mystery  in  by-corners  of 
the  village,  reading  the  hands  of  the  simple  country  girls,  and 
no  doubt  promising  them  all  good  husbands  and  tribes  of 
children. 

The  Squire  made  his  appearance  in  the  course  of  the  morning, 
attended  by  the  parson,  and  was  received  with  loud  acclama- 
tions. He  mingled  among  the  country  people  throughout  the 
day,  giving  and  receiving  pleasure  wherever  he  went.  The 
amusements  of  the  day  were  under  the  management  of  Slingsby, 
the  schoolmaster,  who  is  not  merely  lord  of  misrule  in  his 
school,  but  master  of  the  revels  to  the  village.  He  was  bus- 
tling about,  with  the  perplexed  and  anxious  air  of  a  man  who 
has  the  oppressive  burden  of  promoting  other  people's  merri- 
ment upon  his  mind.  He  had  involved  himself  in  a  dozen 
scrapes,  in  consequence  of  a  politic  intrigue,  which  by-the-by, 
Master  Simon  and  the  Oxonian  were  at  the  bottom  of,  which 
had  for  its  object  the  election  of  the  Queen  of  May.  He  had 
met  with  violent  oposition  from  a  faction  of  ale-drinkers,  who 
were  in  favor  of  a  bouncing  bar-maid,  the  daughter  of  the  inn- 
keeper; but  he  had  been  too  strongly  backed  not  to  carry  his 
point,  though  it  shows  that  these  rural  crowns,  like  all  others, 
are  objects  of  great  ambition  and  heart-burning.  I  am  told 
that  Master  Simon  takes  great  interest,  though  hi  an  under- 
hand way,  in  the  election  of  these  May-day  Queens,  and  that 
the  chaplet  is  generally  secured  for  some  rustic  beauty  who 
has  found  favor  in  his  eyes. 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  there  were  various  games  of  strength 
and  agility  on  the  green,  at  which  a  knot  of  village  veterans 
presided,  as  judges  of  the  lists.  Among  these  Ready-Money 
Jack  took  the  lead,  looking  with  a  learned  and  critical  eye  on 
-the  merits  of  the  different  candidates ;  and,  though  he  was  very 
laconic,  and  sometimes  merely  expressed  himself  by  a  nod,  it 
was  evident  his  opinions  far  outweighed  those  of  the  most 
loquacious. 

Young  Jack  Tibbets  was  the  hero  of  the  day,  and  carried  off 
most  of  the  prizes,  though  in  some  of  the  feats  of  agility  he  waa 


MAT-DAY.  195 

rivalled  by  the  "prodigal  son,"  who  appeared  much  in  his  ele- 
ment on  this  occasion ;  but  his  most  formidable  competitor  was 
the  notorious  gypsy,  the  redoubtable  "  Starlight  Tom."  I  was 
rejoiced  at  having  an  opportunity  of  seeing  this  "  minion  of  the 
moon  "  in  broad  daylight.  I  found  him  a  tall,  swarthy,  good- 
looking  fellow,  with  a  lofty  air,  something  like  what  I  have 
seen  in  an  Indian  chieftain ;  and  with  a  certain  lounging,  easy, 
and  almost  graceful  carnage,  which  I  have  often  remarked  in 
beicgs  of  the  lazzaroni  order,  who  lead  an  idle  loitering  life, 
and  have  a  gentlemanlike  contempt  of  labor. 

Master  Simon  and  the  old  general  reconnoitred  the  ground 
together,  and  indulged  a  vast  deal  of  harmless  raking  among 
the  buxom  country  girls.  Master  Simon  would  give  some  of 
them  a  kiss  on  meeting  with  them,  and  would  ask  after  their 
sisters,  for  he  is  acquainted  with  most  of  the  farmers'  families. 
Sometimes  he  would  whisper,  and  affect  to  talk  mischievously 
with  them,  and,  if  bantered  on  the  subject,  would  turn  it  off 
with  a  laugh,  though  it  was  evident  he  liked  to  be  suspected  of 
being  a  gay  Lothario  amongst  them. 

He  had  much  to  say  to  the  farmers  about  their  farms ;  and 
seemed  to  know  all  their  horses  by  name.  There  was  an  old 
fellow,  with  a  round  ruddy  face,  and  a  night-cap  under  his  hat, 
the  village  wit,  who  took  several  occasions  to  crack  a  joke  with 
him  in  the  hearing  of  his  companions,  to  whom  he  would  turn 
and  wink  hard  when  Master  Simon  had  passed. 

The  harmony  of  the  day,  however,  had  nearly,  at  one  time, 
been  interrutped  by  the  appearance  of  the  radical  on  the 
ground,  with  two  or  three  of  his  disciples.  He  soon  got  engaged 
in  argument  in  the  very  thick  of  the  throng,  above  which  I 
could  hear  his  voice,  and  now  and  then  see  his  meagre  hand, 
half  a  mile  out  of  the  sleeve,  elevated  in  the  air  in  violent 
gesticulation,  and  flourishing  a  pamphlet  by  way  of  truncheon. 
He  was  decrying  these  idle  nonsensical  amusements  in  times 
of  public  distress,  when  it  was  every  one's  business  to  think  of 
other  matters,  and  to  be  miserable.  The  honest  village  logicians 
could  make  no  stand  against  him,  especially  as  he  was  seconded 
by  his  proselytes ;  when,  to  their  great  joy,  Master  Simon  and 
the  general  came  drifting  down  into  the  field  of  action.  Master 
Simon  was  for  making  off,  as  soon  as  he  found  himself 
in  the  neighborhood  of  this  fire-ship;  but  the  general  was 
too  loyal  to  suffer  such  talk  in  his  hearing,  and  thought, 
no  doubt,  that  a  look  and  a  word  from  a  gentleman  would 
be  sufficient  to  shut  up  so  shabby  an  orator.  The  latter, 
however,  was  no  respecter  of  persons,  but  rather  exulted  in 


196  BEACEBEIDGE    HALL. 

having  such  important  antagonists.  He  talked  with  greater 
volubility  than  ever,  and  soon  drowned  them  in  declamation  on 
the  subject  of  taxes,  poor's  rates,  and  the  national  debt. 
Master  Simon  endeavored  to  brush  along  in  his  usual  excursive 
manner,  which  always  answered  amazingly  well  with  the 
villagers ;  but  the  radical  was  one  of  those  pestilent  fellows 
that  pin  a  man  down  to  facts ;  and,  indeed,  he  had  two  or  three 
pamphlets  in  his  pocket,  to  support  every  thing  he  advanced  by 
printed  documents.  The  general,  too,  found  himself  betrayed 
into  a  more  serious  action  than  his  dignity  could  brook;  and 
looked  like  a  mighty  Dutch  Indiaman,  grievously  peppered  by 
a  petty  privateer.  In  vain  he  swelled  and  looked  big,  and 
talked  large,  and  endeavored  to  make  up  by  pomp  of  manner 
for  poverty  of  matter ;  every  home-thrust  of  the  radical  made 
him  wheeze  like  a  bellows,  and  seemed  to  let  a  volume  of 
wind  out  of  him.  In  a  word,  the  two  worthies  from  the  Hall 
were  completely  dumbfounded,  and  this  too  in  the  presence  of 
several  of  Master  Simon's  stanch  admirers,  who  had  always 
looked  up  to  him  as  infallible.  I  do  not  know  how  he  and  the 
general  would  have  managed  to  draw  their  forces  decently  from 
the  field,  had  not  a  match  at  grinning  through  a  horse-collar 
been  announced,  whereupon  the  radical  retired  with  great  ex- 
pression of  contempt,  and,  as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  the 
argument  was  carried  against  him  all  hollow. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  pack  of  stuff,  general?"  said 
Master  Simon ;  "there's  no  talking  with  one  of  these  chaps, 
when  he  once  gets  that  confounded  Cobbett  in  his  head." 

"  S'blood,  sir !  "  said  the  general,  wiping  his  forehead,  "  such 
fellows  ought  to  be  transported !  " 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  day,  the  ladies  from  the  Hall  paid  a 
visit  to  the  green.  The  fair  Julia  made  her  appearance  leaning 
on  her  lover's  arm,  and  looking  extremely  pale  and  interesting. 
As  she  is  a  great  favorite  in  the  village,  where  she  has  been 
known  from  childhood ;  and  as  her  late  accident  had  been  much 
talked  about,  the  sight  of  her  caused  very  manifest  delight, 
and  some  of  the  old  women  of  the  village  blessed  her  sweet  face 
as  she  passed. 

While  they  were  walking  about,  I  noticed  the  schoolmaster 
in  earnest  conversation  with  the  Queen  of  May,  evidently 
endeavoring  to  spirit  her  up  to  some  formidable  undertaking. 
At  length,  as  the  party  from  the  Hall  approached  her  bower, 
she  came  forth,  faltering  at  every  step,  until  she  reached  the 
spot  where  the  fair  Julia  stood  between  her  lover  and  Lady 
Lillycraft.  The  little  Queen  then  took  the  chaplet  of  flowers 


MAY-DAT.  197  , 

from  her  head,  and  attempted  to  put  it  on  that  of  the  bride 
elect;  but  the  confusion  of  both  was  so  great,  that  the 
wreath  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground,  had  not  the  officer 
caught  it,  and,  laughing,  placed  it  upon  the  blushing  brows 
of  his  mistress.  There  was  something  charming  in  the  very 
embarrassment  of  these  two  young  creatures,  both  so  beautiful, 
yet  so  different  in  their  kinds  of  beauty.  Master  Simon  told 
me,  afterwards,  that  the  Queen  of  May  was  to  have  spoken 
a  few  verses  which  the  schoolmaster  had  written  for  her; 
but  she  had  neither  wit  to  understand,  nor  memory  to  recollect 
them.  "  Besides,"  added  he,  "  between  you  and  I,  she  mur- 
ders the  king's  English  abominably ;  so  she  has  acted  the  part 
of  a  wise  woman,  in  holding  her  tongue,  and  trusting  to  her 
pretty  face." 

Among  the  other  characters  from  the  Hall  was  Mrs.  Hannah, 
my  Lady  Lillycraft's  gentlewoman ;  to  my  surprise,  she  was 
escorted  by  old  Christy,  the  huntsman,  and  followed  by  his 
ghost  of  a  greyhound ;  but  I  find  they  are  very  old  acquaint- 
ances, being  drawn  together  by  some  sympathy  of  disposition. 
Mrs.  Hannah  moved  about  with  starched  dignity  among  the 
rustics,  who  drew  back  from  her  with  more  awe  than  they  did 
from  her  mistress.  Her  mouth  seemed  shut  as  with  a  clasp , 
excepting  that  I  now  and  then  heard  the  word  "  fellows !" 
escape  from  between  her  lips,  as  she  got  accidentally  jostled  in 
the  crowd. 

But  there  was  one  other  heart  present  that  did  not  enter  into 
the  merriment  of  the  scene,  which  was  that  of  the  simple 
Phoebe  Wilkins,  the  housekeeper's  niece.  The  poor  girl  has 
continued  to  pine  and  whine  for  some  time  past,  in  consequence 
of  the  obstinate  coldness  of  her  lover ;  never  was  a  little  flirta- 
tion more  severely  punished.  She  appeared  this  day  on  the 
green,  gallanted  by  a  smart  servant  out  of  livery,  and  had  evi- 
dently resolved  to  try  the  hazardous  experiment  of  awakening 
the  jealousy  of  her  lover.  She  was  dressed  in  her  very  best ; 
affected  an  air  of  great  gayety ;  talked  loud  and  girlishly,  and 
laughed  when  there  was  nothing  to  laugh  at.  There  was,  how- 
ever, an  aching,  heavy  heart  in  the  poor  baggage's  bosom,  in 
spite  of  all  her  levity.  Her  eye  turned  every  now  and  then 
in  quest  of  her  reckless  lover,  and  her  cheek  grew  pale,  and  her 
fictitious  gayety  vanished,  on  seeing  him  paying  his  rustic  hom- 
age to  the  little  May-day  Queen. 

My  attention  was  now  diverted  by  a  fresh  stir  and  bustle. 
Music  was  heard  from  a  distance ;  a  banner  was  advancing 
up  the  road,  preceded  by  a  rustic  band  playing  something  like 


198  BRACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

a  march,  and  followed  by  a  sturdy  throng  of  country  lads,  the 
chivalry  of  a  neighboring  and  rival  village. 

No  sooner  had  they  reached  the  green,  than  they  challenged 
the  heroes  of  the  day  to  new  trials  of  strength  and  activity. 
Several  gymnastic  contests  ensued,  for  the  honor  of  the  respec- 
tive villages.  In  the  course  of  these  exercises,  young  Tibbets 
and  the  champion  of  the  adverse  party  had  an  obstinate  match 
at  wrestling.  They  tugged,  and  strained,  and  panted,  without 
either  getting  the  mastery,  until  both  came  to  the  ground,  and 
rolled  upon  the  green.  Just  then,  the  disconsolate  Phoebe  came 
by.  She  saw  her  recreant  lover  in  fierce  contest,  as  she  thought, 
and  in  danger.  In  a  moment  pride,  pique,  and  coquetry,  were 
forgotten  ;  she  rushed  into  the  ring,  seized  upon  the  rival  cham- 
pion by  the  hair,  and  was  on  the  point  of  wreaking  on  him  her 
puny  vengeance,  when  a  buxom,  strapping  country  lass,  the 
sweetheart  of  the  prostrate  swain,  pounced  upon  her  like  a 
hawk,  and  would  have  stripped  her  of  her  fine  plumage  in  a 
twinkling,  had  she  also  not  been  seized  in  her  turn. 

A  complete  tumult  ensued.  The  chivalry  of  the  two  villages 
became  embroiled.  Blows  began  to  be  dealt,  and  sticks  to  be 
flourished.  Phoebe  was  carried  off  from  the  field  in  hysterics. 
In  vain  did  the  sages  of  the  village  interfere.  The  sententious 
apothecary  endeavored  to  pour  the  soothing  oil  of  his  philoso- 
phy upon  this  tempestuous  sea  of  passion,  but  was  tumbled 
into  the  dust.  Slingsby,  the  pedagogue,  who  is  a  great  lover 
of  peace,  went  into  the  midst  of  the  throng,  as  marshal  of  the 
day,  to  put  an  end  to  the  commotion ;  but  was  rent  in  twain, 
and  came  out  with  his  garment  hanging  in  two  strips  from  his 
shoulders ;  upon  which  the  prodigal  son  dashed  in  with  fury, 
to  revenge  the  insult  sustained  by  his  patron.  The  tumult 
thickened ;  I  caught  glimpses  of  the  jockey-cap  of  old  Christy, 
like  the  helmet  of  a  chieftain,  bobbing  about  in  the  midst 
of  the  scuffle ;  while  Mistress  Hannah,  separated  from  her 
doughty  protector,  was  squalling  and  striking  at  right  and  left 
with  a  faded  parasol ;  being  tossed  and  tousled  about  by  the 
crowd  in  such  wise  as  never  happened  to  maiden  gentlewoman 
before. 

At  length  old  Ready-Money  Jack  made  his  way  into  the 
very  thickest  of  the  throng;  tearing  it,  as  it  were,  apart, 
and  enforcing  peace,  vi  et  armis.  It  was  surprising  to  see 
the  sudden  quiet  that  ensued.  The  storm  settled  down  at  once 
into  tranquillity.  The  parties,  having  no  real  grounds  of 
hostility,  were  readily  pacified,  and  in  fact  were  a  little  at  a 
loss  to  know  why  and  how  they  had  got  by  the  ears.  Slingsby 


MAT-DAY.  199 

was  speedily  stitched  together  again  by  his  friend  the  tailor, 
and  resumed  his  usual  good-humor.  Mrs.  Hannah  drew  on 
one  side,  to  plume  her  rumpled  feathers ;  and  old  Christy,  hav- 
ing repaired  his  damages,  took  her  under  his  arm,  and  they 
swept  back  again  to  the  Hall,  ten  times  more  bitter  against 
mankind  than  ever. 

The  Tibbets  family  alone  seemed  slow  in  recovering  from  the 
agitation  of  the  scene.  Young  Jack  was  evidently  very  much 
moved  by  the  heroism  of  the  unlucky  Phoebe.  His  mother, 
who  had  been  summoned  to  the  field  of  action  by  news  of  the 
affray,  was  in  a  sad  panic,  and  had  need  of  all  her  manage- 
ment to  keep  him  from  following  his  mistress,  and  coming  to 
a  perfect  reconciliation. 

What  heightened  the  alarm  and  perplexity  of  the  good 
managing  dame  was,  that  the  matter  had  aroused  the  slow  ap- 
prehension of  old  Ready-Money  himself ;  who  was  ver}-  much 
struck  by  the  intrepid  interference  of  so  pretty  and  delicate  a 
girl,  and  was  sadly  puzzled  to  understand  the  meaning  of  the 
violent  agitation  in  his  family. 

When  all  this  came  to  the  ears  of  the  Squire,  he  was  griev- 
ously scandalized  that  his  May-day  fete  should  have  been  dis- 
graced by  such  a  brawl.  He  ordered  Phcebe  to  appear  before 
him ;  but  the  girl  was  so  frightened  and  distressed,  that  she 
came  sobbing  and  trembling,  and,  at  the  first  question  he 
asked,  fell  again  into  hysterics.  Lady  Lillycraft,  who  under- 
stood there  was  an  affair  of  the  heart  at  the  bottom  of  this  dis- 
tress, immediately  took  the  girl  into  great  favor  and  protection, 
and  made  her  peace  with  the  Squire.  This  was  the  only  thing 
that  disturbed  the  harmony  of  the  day,  if  we  except  the  discom- 
fiture of  Master  Simon  and  the  general  by  the  radical.  Upon 
the  whole,  therefore,  the  Squire  had  very  fair  reason  to  be  sat- 
isfied that  he  had  ridden  his  hobby  throughout  the  day  without 
any  other  molestation. 

The  reader,  learned  in  these  matters,  will  perceive  that  all 
this  was  but  a  faint  shadow  of  the  once  gay  and  fanciful  rites 
of  May.  The  peasantry  have  lost  the  proper  feeling  for  these 
rites,  and  have  grown  almost  as  strange  to  them  as  the  boors 
of  La  Mancha  were  to  the  customs  of  chivalry,  in  the  days  of 
the  valorous  Don  Quixote.  Indeed,  I  considered  it  a  proof  of 
the  discretion  with  which  the  Squire  rides  his  hobby,  that  he 
had  not  pushed  the  thing  any  farther,  nor  attempted  to  revive 
many  obsolete  usages  of  the  day,  which,  in  the  present  matter- 
of-fact  times,  would  appear  affected  and  absurd.  I  must  say, 
though  I  do  it  under  the  rose,  the  general  brawl  in  which  this 


200  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

festival  had  nearly  terminated,  has  made  me  doubt  whethei 
these  rural  customs  of  the  good  old  times  were  always  so  very 
loving  and  innocent  as  we  are  apt  to  fane}'  them  ;  and  whethei 
the  peasantry  in  those  times  were  really  so  Arcadian  as  the^ 
have  been  fondly  represented.  I  begin  to  fear  — 

"  Those  days  were  never;  airy  dream 

Sat  for  the  picture,  and  the  poet's  hand, 
Imparting  substance  to  an  empty  shade, 
Imposed  a  gay  delirium  for  a  truth. 
Grant  it;  I  still  must  envy  them  an  age 
That  favor'd  such  a  dream. " 


THE  MANUSCRIPT. 

YESTERDAY  was  a  day  of  quiet  and  repose,  after  the  bustle  of 
May-day.  During  the  morning,  I  joined  the  ladies  in  a  small 
sitting-room,  the  windows  of  which  came  down  to  the  floor, 
and  opened  upon  a  terrace  of  the  garden,  which  was  set  out 
with  delicate  shrubs  and  flowers.  The  soft  sunshine  falling 
into  the  room  through  the  branches  of  trees  that  overhung 
the  windows,  the  sweet  smell  of  flowers,  and  the  singing  of 
birds,  produced  a  pleasing  yet  calming  effect  on  the  whole 
party.  Some  time  elapsed  without  any  one  speaking.  Lady 
Lillycraft  and  Miss  Templeton  were  sitting  by  an  elegant  work- 
table,  near  one  of  the  windows,  occupied  with  some  pretty  lady- 
like work.  The  captain  was  on  a  stool  at  his  mistress'  feet, 
looking  over  some  music ;  and  poor  Phrebe  Wilkins,  who  has 
always  been  a  kind  of  pet  among  the  ladies,  but  who  has  risen 
vastly  in  favor  with  Lady  Lillycraft,  in  consequence  of  some 
tender  confessions,  sat  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  with  swollen 
eyes,  working  pensively  at  some  of  the  fair  Julia's  wedding 
ornaments. 

The  silence  was  interrupted  by  her  ladyship,  who  suddenly 
proposed  a  task  to  the  captain.  "I  am  in  your  debt,"  said 
she,  "  for  that  tale  you  read  to  us  the  other  day ;  I  will  now 
furnish  one  in  return,  if  you'll  read  it :  and  it  is  just  suited  to 
this  sweet  May  morning,  for  it  is  all  about  love !  " 

The  proposition  seemed  to  delight  every  one  present.  The 
captain  smiled  assent.  Her  ladyship  rang  for  her  page,  and 
despatched  him  to  her  room  for  the  manuscript.  "As  the 
captain,"  said  she,  "gave  us  an  account  of  the  author  of  his 


THE  MANUSCRIPT.  201 

story,  it  is  but  right  I  should  give  one  of  mine.  It  was  written 
by  the  parson  of  the  parish  where  I  reside.  He  is  a  thin, 
elderly  man,  of  a  delicate  constitution,  but  positively  one  of 
the  most  charming  men  that  ever  lived.  He  lost  his  wife  a  few 
years  since  ;  one  of  the  sweetest  women  you  ever  saw.  He  has 
two  sons,  whom  he  educates  himself ;  both  of  whom  already 
write  delightful  poetry.  His  parsonage  is  a  lovely  place,  close 
by  the  church,  all  overrun  with  ivy  and  honeysuckles ;  with  the 
sweetest  flower-garden  about  it ;  for,  you  know,  our  country 
clergymen  are  almost  always  fond  of  flowers,  and  make  their 
parsonages  perfect  pictures. 

k'  His  living  is  a  very  good  one,  and  he  is  very  much  beloved, 
and  does  a  great  deal  of  good  in  the  neighborhood,  and  among 
the  poor.  And  then  such  sermons  as  he  preaches !  Oh,  if  you 
could  only  hear  one  taken  from  a  text  in  Solomon's  Song,  all 
about  love  and  matrimony,  one  of  the  sweetest  things  you  ever 
heard !  He  preaches  it  at  least  once  a  year,  in  spring-time, 
for  he  knows  I  am  fond  of  it.  He  always  dines  with  me  on 
Sundays,  and  often  brings  me  some  of  the  sweetest  pieces  of 
poetry,  all  about  the  pleasures  of  melancholy,  and  such  sub- 
jects, that  make  me  cry  so,  you  can't  think.  I  wish  he  would 
publish.  I  think  he  has  some  things  as  sweet  as  any  thing  of 
Moore  or  Lord  Byron. 

"  He  fell  into  very  ill  health  some  time  ago,  and  was  advised 
to  go  to  the  continent ;  and  I  gave  him  no  peace  until  he  went, 
and  promised  to  take  care  of  his  two  boys  until  he  returned. 

"  He  was  gone  for  above  a  year,  and  was  quite  restored. 
When  he  came  back,  he  sent  me  the  tale  I'm  going  to  show 
you.  — Oh,  here  it  is  ! "  said  she,  as  the  page  put  in  her  hands  a 
beautiful  box  of  satinwood.  She  unlocked  it,  and  among  seve- 
ral parcels  of  notes  on  embossed  paper,  cards  of  charades,  and 
copies  of  verses,  she  drew  out  a  crimson  velvet  case,  that  smelt 
very  much  of  perfumes.  From  this  she  took  a  manuscript, 
daintily  written  on  gilt-edged  vellum  paper,  and  stitched  with 
a  light  blue  ribbon.  This  she  handed  to  the  captain,  who  read 
the  following  tale,  which  I  have  procured  for  the  entertainment 
of  the  reader. 


202  BEACEBEIDGE   HALL. 


ANNETTE  DELARBRE. 

The  soldier  f  rae  the  war  returns, 
And  the  merchant  from  the  main, 
But  I  hae  parted  wi'  my  love, 
And  ne'er  to  meet  again, 

My  dear, 
And  ne'er  to  meet  again. 

When  day  is  gone,  and  night  is  come, 
And  a*  are  boun  to  sleep, 
I  think  on  them  that's  far  awa 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep, 

My  dear, 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep.  —  Old  Scotch  Ballad. 

IN  the  course  of  a  tour  in  Lower  Normandy,  I  remained  for 
a  day  or  two  at  the  old  town  of  Honfleur,  which  stands  near 
the  mouth  of  the  Seine.  It  was  the  time  of  a  ffite,  and  all  the 
world  was  thronging  in  the  evening  to  dance  at  the  fair,  held 
before  the  chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  Grace.  As  I  like  all  kinds 
of  innocent  merry-making,  I  joined  the  throng. 

The  chapel  is  situated  at  the  top  of  a  high  hill,  or  promon- 
tory, whence  its  bell  may  be  heard  at  a  distance  by  the  mariner 
at  night.  It  is  said  to  have  given  the  name  to  the  port  of 
Havre-de-Grace,  which  lies  directly  opposite,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Seine.  The  road  up  to  the  chapel  went  in  a  zigzag 
course,  along  the  brow  of  the  steep  coast;  it  was  shaded  by 
trees,  from  between  which  I  had  beautiful  peeps  at  the  ancient 
towers  of  Honfleur  below,  the  varied  scenery  of  the  opposite 
shore,  the  white  buildings  of  Havre  in  the  distance,  and  the 
wide  sea  beyond.  The  road  was  enlivened  by  groups  of  peasant 
girls,  in  bright  crimson  dresses  and  tall  caps  ;  and  I  found  all 
the  flower  of  the  neighborhood  assembled  on  the  green  that 
crowns  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

The  chapel  of  Notre  Dame  de  Grace  is  a  favorite  resort  of 
the  inhabitants  of  Honfleur  and  its  vicinity,  both  for  pleasure 
and  devotion.  At  this  little  chapel  prayers  are  put  up  bv  the 
mariners  of  the  port  previous  to  their  voyages,  and  by  their 
friends  during  their  absence  ;  and  votive  offerings  are  hung 
about  its  walls,  in  fulfilment  of  vows  made  during  times  of 
shipwreck  and  disaster.  The  chapel  is  surrounded  by  trees. 
Over  the  portal  is  an  image  of  the  Virgin  and  child,  with  an 
inscription  which  struck  me  as  being  quite  poetical : 


ANNETTE  LELAEBRS.  203 

11  Etoile  de  la  mer,  priez  pour  nous!  " 
(Star  of  the  sea,  pray  for  us.) 

On  a  level  spot  near  the  chapel,  under  a  grove  of  noble  trees, 
the  populace  dance  on  fine  summer  evenings  ;  and  here  are  held 
frequent  fairs  and  fetes,  which  assemble  all  the  rustic  beauty 
of  the  loveliest  parts  of  Lower  Normandy.  The  present  was 
an  occasion  of  the  kind.  Booths  and  tents  were  erected  among 
the  trees  ;  there  were  the  usual  displays  of  finery  to  tempt  the 
rural  coquette,  and  of  wonderful  shows  to  entice  the  curious ; 
mountebanks  were  exerting  their  eloquence ;  jugglers  and  for- 
tune-tellers astonishing  the  credulous ;  while  whole  rows  of  gro- 
tesque saints,  in  wood  and  wax- work,  were  offered  for  the  pur- 
chase of  the  pious. 

The  fete  had  assembled  in  one  view  all  the  picturesque  cos- 
tumes of  the  Pays  d'Auge,  and  the  Cote"  de  Caux.  I  beheld 
tall,  stately  caps,  and  trim  bodices,  according  to  fashions  which 
have  been  handed  down  from  mother  to  daughter  for  centuries, 
the  exact  counterparts  of  those  worn  in  the  time  of  the  Con- 
queror ;  and  which  surprised  me  by  their  faithful  resemblance 
to  those  in  the  old  pictures  of  Froissart's  Chronicles,  and  in  the 
paintings  of  illuminated  manuscripts.  Any  one,  also,  who  has 
been  in  Lower  Normandy,  must  have  remarked  the  beauty  of 
the  peasantry,  and  that  air  of  native  elegance  which  prevails 
among  them.  It  is  to  this  country,  undoubtedly,  that  the  Eng- 
lish owe  their  good  looks.  It  was  hence  that  the  bright  carna- 
tion, the  fine  blue  eye,  the  light  auburn  hair,  passed  over  to 
England  in  the  t»iin  of  the  Conqueror,  and  filled  the  land  with 
beauty. 

The  scene  before  me  was  perfectly  enchanting :  the  assem- 
blage of  so  many  fresh  and  blooming  faces  ;  the  gay  groups  in 
fanciful  dresses ;  some  dancing  on  the  green,  others  strolling 
about,  or  seated  on  the  grass ;  the  fine  clumps  of  trees  in  the 
foreground,  bordering  the  brow  of  this  airy  height,  and  the 
broad  green  sea,  sleeping  in  summer  tranquillity  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

Whilst  I  was  regarding  this  animated  picture,  I  was  struck 
with  the  appearance  of  a  beautiful  girl,  who  passed  through  the 
crowd  without  seeming  to  take  any  interest  in  their  amuse- 
ments. She  was  slender  and  delicate,  without  the  bloom  upon 
her  cheek  usual  among  the  peasantry  of  Normandy,  and  her 
blue  eyes  had  a  singular  and  melancholy  expression.  She  was 
accompanied  by  a  venerable-looking  man,  whom  I  presumed  to 
be  her  father.  There  was  a  whisper  among  the  bystanders, 
and  a  wistful  look  after  her  as  she  passed ;  the  young  men 


204  SRACEBEIDGE   HALL. 

touched  their  hats,  and  some  of  the  children  followed  her  at  a 
little  distance,  watching  her  movements.  She  approached  the 
edge  of  the  hill,  where  there  is  a  little  platform,  whence  the  peo> 
pie  of  Honfleur  look  out  for  the  approach  of  vessels.  Here  she 
stood  for  some  time  waving  her  handkerchief,  though  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  but  two  or  three  fishing-boats,  like  mere 
specks  on  the  bosom  of  the  distant  ocean. 

These  circumstances  excited  my  curiosity,  and  I  made  some 
inquiries  about  her,  which  were  answered  with  readiness  and  in- 
telligence by  a  priest  of  the  neighboring  chapel.  Our  conversa- 
tion drew  together  several  of  the  bystanders,  each  of  whom 
had  something  to  communicate,  and  from  them  all  I  gathered 
the  following  particulars. 

Annette  Delarbre  was  the  only  daughter  of  one  of  the  higher 
order  of  farmers,  or  small  proprietors,  as  they  are  called,  of 
Pont  1'Eveque,  a  pleasant  village  not  far  from  Honfleur,  in  that 
rich  pastoral  part  of  Lower  Normandy  called  the  Pays  d'Auge. 
Annette  was  the  pride  and  delight  of  her  parents,  who  brought 
her  up  with  the  fondest  indulgence.  She  was  gay,  tender,  pet- 
ulant, and  susceptible.  All  her  feelings  were  quick  and  ardent ; 
and  having  never  experienced  contradiction  or  restraint,  she 
was  little  practised  in  self-control :  nothing  but  the  native 
goodness  of  her  heart  kept  her  from  running  continually  into 
error. 

Even  while  a  child,  her  susceptibility  was  evinced  in  an 
attachment  formed  to  a  playmate,  Eugene  La  Forgue,  the 
only  son  of  a  widow  of  the  neighborhood.  Their  childish 
love  was  an  epitome  of  maturer  passion ;  it  had  its  caprices, 
and  jealousies,  and  quarrels,  and  reconciliations.  It  was 
assuming  something  of  a  graver  character,  as  Annette  en- 
tered her  fifteenth  and  Eugene  his  nineteenth  year,  when  he 
was  suddenly  carried  off  to  the  army  by  the  conscription. 

It  was  a  heavy  blow  to  his  widowed  mother,  for  he  was  her 
only  pride  and  comfort ;  but  it  was  one  of  those  sudden  bereave- 
ments which  mothers  were  perpetually  doomed  to  feel  in  France, 
during  the  time  that  continual  and  bloody  wars  were  incessantly 
draining  her  youth.  It  was  a  temporary  affliction  also  to 
Annette,  to  lose  her  lover.  With  tender  embraces,  half  child- 
ish, half  womanish,  she  parted  from  him.  The  tears  streamed 
from  her  blue  eyes,  as  she  bound  a  braid  of  her  fair  hair  round 
his  wrist ;  but  the  smiles  still  broke  through ;  for  she  was  yet 
too  young  to  feel  how  serious  a  thing  is  separation,  and  how 
many  chances  there  are,  when  parting  in  this  wide  world, 
against  our  ever  meeting  again. 


ANNETTE  DELARBSE.  206 

Weeks,  months,  years  flew  by.  Annette  increased  in  beauty 
as  she  increased  in  years,  and  was  the  reigning  belle  of  the 
neighborhood.  Her  time  passed  innocently  and  happily.  Her 
father  was  a  man  of  some  consequence  in  the  rural  community, 
and  his  house  was  the  resort  of  the  gayest  of  the  village. 
Annette  held  a  kind  of  rural  court ;  she  was  always  surrounded 
by  companions  of  her  own  age,  among  whom  she  shone  unri- 
valled. Much  of  their  time  was  passed  in  making  lace,  the 
prevalent  manufacture  of  the  neighborhood.  As  they  sat  at 
this  delicate  and  feminine  labor,  the  merry  tale  and  sprightly 
song  went  round ;  none  laughed  with  a  lighter  heart  than  An- 
nette ;  and  if  she  sang,  her  voice  was  perfect  melody.  Their 
evenings  were  enlivened  by  the  dance,  or  by  those  pleasant 
social  games  so  prevalent  among  the  French ;  and  when  she 
appeared  at  the  village  ball  on  Sunday  evenings,  she  was  the 
theme  of  universal  admiration. 

As  she  was  a  rural  heiress,  she  did  not  want  for  suitors. 
Many  advantageous  offers  were  made  her,  but  she  refused  them 
all.  She  laughed  at  the  pretended  pangs  of  her  admirers,  and 
triumphed  over  them  with  the  caprice  of  buoyant  youth  and 
conscious  beauty.  With  all  her  apparent  levity,  however, 
could  any  one  have  read  the  story  of  her  heart,  they  might 
have  traced  in  it  some  fond  remembrance  of  her  early  play- 
mate, not  so  deeply  graven  as  to  be  painful,  but  too  desp  to  be 
easily  obliterated ;  and  they  might  have  noticed,  amidst  all  her 
gayety,  the  tenderness  that  marked  her  manner  towards  the 
mother  of  Eugene.  She  would  often  steal  away  from  her  youth- 
ful companions  and  their  amusements,  to  pass  whole  days  with 
the  good  widow  ;  listening  to  her  fond  talk  about  her  boy,  and 
blushing  with  secret  pleasure,  when  his  letters  were  read,  at 
finding  herself  a  constant  theme  of  recollection  and  inquiry. 

At  length  the  sudden  return  of  peace,  which  sent  many  a 
warrior  to  his  native  cottage,  brought  back  Eugene,  a  young 
sun-burnt  soldier,  to  the  village.  I  need  not  say  how  raptur- 
ously his  return  was  greeted  by  his  mother,  who  saw  in  him 
the  pride  and  staff  of  her  old  age.  He  had  risen  in  the  service 
by  his  merit ;  but  brought  away  little  from  the  wars,  except- 
ing a  soldier-like  air,  a  gallant  name,  and  a  scar  across  the 
forehead.  He  brought  back,  however,  a  nature  unspoiled  by 
the  camp.  He  was  frank,  open,  generous,  and  ardent.  His 
heart  was  quick  and  kind  in  its  impulses,  and  was  perhaps  a 
little  softer  from  having  suffered  :  it  was  full  of  tenderness  for 
Annette.  He  had  received  frequent  accounts  of  her  from  his 
mother  ;  and  the  mention  of  her  kindness  to  his  lonely  parent, 


206  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

had  rendered  her  doubly  dear  to  him.  He  had  been  wounded ; 
he  had  been  a  prisoner ;  he  had  been  in  various  troubles,  but 
had  always  preserved  the  braid  of  hair,  which  she  had  bound 
round  his  arm.  It  had  been  a  kind  of  talisman  to  him;  he 
had  many  a  time  looked  upon  it  as  he  lay  on  the  hard  ground, 
and  the  thought  that  he  might  one  day  see  Annette  again,  and 
the  fair  fields  about  his  native  village,  had  cheered  his  heart, 
and  enabled  him  to  bear  up  against  every  hardship. 

He  had  left  Annette  almost  a  child  —  he  found  her  a  bloom- 
ing woman.  If  he  had  loved  her  before,  he  now  adored  her. 
Annette  was  equally  struck  with  the  improvement  time  had 
made  in  her  lover.  She  noticed,  with  secret  admiration,  his 
superiority  to  the  other  young  men  of  the  village ;  the  frank, 
lofty,  military  air,  that  distinguished  him  from  all  the  rest  at 
their  rural  gatherings.  The  more  she  saw  him,  the  more  her 
light,  playful  fondness  of  former  years  deepened  into  ardent 
and  powerful  affection.  But  Annette  was  a  rural  belle.  She 
had  tasted  the  sweets  of  dominion,  and  had  been  rendered  wil- 
ful and  capricious  by  constant  indulgence  at  home,  and  admira- 
tion abroad.  She  was  conscious  of  her  power  over  Eugene, 
and  delighted  in  exercising  it.  She  sometimes  treated  him  with 
petulant  caprice,  enjoying  the  pain  which  she  inflicted  by  her 
frowns,  from  the  idea  how  soon  she  would  chase  it  away  again 
by  her  smiles.  She  took  a  pleasure  in  alarming  his  fears,  by 
affecting  a  temporary  preference  for  some  one  or  other  of  his 
rivals ;  and  then  would  delight  in  allaying  them,  by  an  ample 
measure  of  returning  kindness.  Perhaps  there  was  some 
degree  of  vanity  gratified  by  all  this ;  it  might  be  a  matter  ot' 
triumph  to  show  her  absolute  power  over  the  young  soldier, 
who  was  the  universal  object  of  female  admiration.  Eugene, 
however,  was  of  too  serious  and  ardent  a  nature  to  be  trifled 
with.  He  loved  too  fervently  not  to  be  filled  with  doubt.  He 
saw  Annette  surrounded  by  admirers,  and  full  of  animation ; 
the  gayest  among  the  gay  at  all  their  rural  festivities,  and 
apparently  most  gay  when  he  was  most  dejected.  Every  one 
saw  through  this  caprice,  but  himself ;  every  one  saw  that  in 
reality  she  doted  on  him  ;  but  Eugene  alone  suspected  the  sin- 
cerity of  her  affection.  For  some  time  he  bore  this  coquetry 
with  secret  impatience  and  distrust ;  but  his  feelings  grew  sore 
and  irritable,  and  overcame  his  self-command.  A  slight  mis- 
understanding took  place ;  a  quarrel  ensued.  Annette,  unac- 
customed to  be  thwarted  and  contradicted,  and  full  of  the 
insolence  of  youthful  beauty,  assumed  an  air  of  disdain.  She 
refuse  1  all  explanations  to  her  lover,  and  they  parted  in  anger. 


ANNETTE  DELARBRE.  207 

That  very  evening  Eugene  saw  her,  full  of  gayety,  dancing  with 
one  of  his  rivals  ;  and  as  her  eye  caught  his,  fixed  on  her  with 
unfeigned  distress,  it  sparkled  with  more  than  usual  vivacity. 
It  was  a  finishing  blow  to  his  hopes,  already  so  much  impaired 
by  secret  distrust.  Pride  and  resentment  both  struggled  in  his 
breast,  and  seemed  to  rouse  his  spirit  to  all  its  wonted  energy. 
He  retired  from  her  presence,  with  the  hasty  determination 
never  to  see  her  again. 

A  woman  is  more  considerate  in  affairs  of  love  than  a 
man ;  because  love  is  more  the  study  and  business  of  her  life. 
Annette  soon  repented  of  her  indiscretion  ;  she  felt  that  she  had 
used  her  lover  unkindly ;  she  felt  that  she  had  trifled  with  his 
sincere  and  generous  nature  —  and  then  he  looked  so  handsome 
when  he  parted  after  their  quarrel  —  his  fine  features  lighted  up 
by  indignation.  She  had  intended  making  up  with  him  at  the 
evening  dance  ;  but  his  sudden  departure  prevented  her.  She 
now  promised  herself  that  when  next  they  met  she  would  am- 
ply repay  him  by  the  sweets  of  a  perfect  reconciliation,  and 
that,  thenceforward,  she  would  never  —  never  tease  him  more  ! 
That  promise  was  not  to  be  fulfilled.  Day  after  day  passed  — 
but  Eugene  did  not  make  his  appearance.  Sunday  evening 
came,  the  usual  time  when  all  the  gayety  of  the  village  assem- 
bled —  but  Eugene  was  not  there.  She  inquired  after  him  ;  he 
had  left  the  village.  She  now  became  alarmed,  and,  forgetting 
all  coyness  and  affected  indifference,  called  on  Eugene's  mother 
for  an  explanation.  She  found  her  full  of  affliction,  and  learnt 
with  surprise  and  consternation  that  Eugene  had  gone  to  sea. 

While  his  feelings  were  yet  smarting  with  her  affected  dis- 
dain, and  his  heart  a  prey  to  alternate  indignation  and  despair, 
he  had  suddenly  embraced  an  invitation  which  had  repeatedly 
been  made  him  by  a  relative,  who  was  fitting  out  a  ship  from 
the  port  of  Honfleur,  and  who  wished  him  to  be  the  companion 
of  his  voyage.  Absence  appeared  to  him  the  only  cure  for  his 
unlucky  passion  ;  and  in  the  temporary  transports  of  his  feel- 
ings, there  was  something  gratifying  in  the  idea  of  having  half 
the  world  intervene  between  them.  The  hurry  necessary  for 
his  departure  left  no  time  for  cool  reflection  ;  it  rendered  him 
deaf  to  the  remonstrances  of  his  afflicted  mother.  He  has- 
tened to  Honfleur  just  in  time  to  make  the  needful  preparations 
for  the  voyage ;  and  the  first  news  that  Annette  received  of 
this  sudden  determination  was  a  letter  delivered  by  his  mother, 
returning  her  pledges  of  affection,  particularly  the  long-treas- 
ured braid  of  her  hair,  and  bidding  her  a  last  farewell,  in  terms 
more  full  of  sorrow  and  tenderness  than  upbraiding. 


208  BEACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

This  was  the  first  stroke  of  real  anguish  that  Annette  had 
ever  received,  and  it  overcame  her.  The  vivacity  of  her  spirits 
was  apt  to  hurry  her  to  extremes  ;  she  for  a  time  gave  way  to 
ungovernable  transports  of  affliction  and  remorse,  and  mani- 
fested, in  the  violence  of  her  grief,  the  real  ardor  of  her  affec- 
tion. The  thought  occurred  to  her  that  the  ship  might  not  yet 
have  sailed ;  she  seized  on  the  hope  with  eagerness,  and  has- 
tened with  her  father  to  Honfleur.  The  ship  had  sailed  that 
very  morning.  From  the  heights  above  the  town  she  saw  it 
lessening  to  a  speck  on  the  broad  bosom  of  the  ocean,  and 
before  evening  the  white  sail  had  faded  from  her  sight.  She 
turned  full  of  anguish  to  the  neighboring  chapel  of  Our  Lady 
of  Grace,  and  throwing  herself  on  the  pavement,  poured  out 
prayers  and  tears  for  the  safe  return  of  her  lover. 

When  she  returned  home,  the  cheerfulness  of  her  spirits  was 
at  an  end.  She  looked  back  with  remorse  and  self-upbraiding 
on  her  past  caprices ;  she  turned  with  distaste  from  the  adula- 
tion of  her  admirers,  and  had  no  longer  any  relish  for  the 
amusements  of  the  village.  With  humiliation  and  diffidence, 
she  sought  the  widowed  mother  of  Eugene ;  but  was  received 
by  her  with  an  overflowing  heart ;  for  she  only  beheld  in  An- 
nette one  who  could  sympathize  in  her  doting  fondness  for  her 
son.  It  seemed  some  alleviation  of  her  remorse  to  sit  by  the 
mother  all  da}-,  to  study  her  wants,  to  beguile  her  heavy  hours, 
to  hang  about  her  with  the  caressing  endearments  of  a  daugh- 
ter, and  to  seek  by  every  means,  if  possible,  to  supply  the  place 
of  the  son,  whom  she  reproached  herself  with  having  driven 
away. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  ship  made  a  prosperous  voyage  to  her 
destined  port.  Eugene's  mother  received  a  letter  from  him,  in 
which  he  lamented  the  precipitancy  of  his  departure.  The 
voyage  had  given  him  time  for  sober  reflection.  If  Annette 
had  been  unkind  to  him,  he  ought  not  to  have  forgotten  what 
was  due  to  his  mother,  who  was  now  advanced  in  years.  He 
accused  himself  of  selfishness,  in  only  listening  to  the  sugges- 
tions of  his  own  inconsiderate  passions.  He  promised  to  return 
with  the  ship,  to  make  his  mind  up  to  his  disappointment,  and 

to  think  of  nothing  but  making  his  mother  happy "And 

when  he  does  return,"  said  Annette,  clasping  her  hands  with 
transport,  "  it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  he  ever  leaves  us  again." 

The  time  approached  for  the  ship's  return.  She  was  daily 
expected,  when  the  weather  became  dreadfully  tempestuous. 
Day  after  day  brought  news  of  vessels  foundered,  or  driven  on 
shore,  and  the  coast  was  strewed  with  wrecks.  Intelligence 


ANNETTE  DELARBRX.  209 

was  received  of  the  looked-for  ship  having  been  seen  dismasted 
in  a  violent  storm,  and  the  greatest  fears  were  entertained  for 
her  safety. 

Annette  never  left  the  side  of  Eugene's  mother.  She  watched 
every  change  of  her  countenance  with  painful  solicitude,  and 
endeavored  to  cheer  her  with  hopes,  while  her  own  mind  was 
racked  by  anxiety.  She  tasked  her  efforts  to  be  gay ;  but  it 
was  a  forced  and  unnatural  gayety :  a  sigh  from  the  mother 
would  completely  check  it ;  and  when  she  could  no  longer  re- 
strain the  rising  tears,  she  would  hurry  away  and  pour  out  her 
agony  in  secret.  Every  anxious  look,  every  anxious  inquiry  of 
the  mother,  whenever  a  door  opened,  or  a  strange  face  appeared, 
was  an  arrow  to  her  soul.  She  considered  every  disappointment 
as  a  pang  of  her  own  infliction,  and  her  heart  sickened  under 
the  careworn  expression  of  the  maternal  eye.  At  length  this 
suspense  became  insupportable.  She  left  the  village  and 
hastened  to  Honfleur,  hoping  every  hour,  every  moment,  to 
receive  some  tidings  of  her  lover.  She  paced  the  pier,  and 
wearied  the  seamen  of  the  port  with  her  inquiries.  She  made 
a  daily  pilgrimage  to  the  chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  Grace  ;  hung 
votive  garlands  on  the  wall,  and  passed  hours  either  kneeling 
before  the  altar,  or  looking  out  from  the  brow  of  the  hill  upon 
the  angry  sea. 

At  length  word  was  brought  that  the  long-wished-for  vessel 
was  in  sight.  She  was  seen  standing  into  the  mouth  of  the 
Seine,  shattered  and  crippled,  bearing  marks  of  having  been 
sadly  tempest-tost.  A  general  joy  was  diffused  by  her  return ; 
and  there  was  not  a  brighter  eye,  nor  a  lighter  heart,  than 
Annette's,  in  the  little  port  of  Honfleur.  The  ship  came  to 
anchor  in  the  river,  and  a  boat  put  off  for  the  shore.  The 
populace  crowded  down  to  the  pier-head,  to  welcome  it.  An- 
nette stood  blushing,  and  smiling,  and  trembling,  and  weep- 
ing; for  a  thousand  painfully-pleasing  emotions  agitated  her 
breast  at  the  thoughts  of  the  meeting  and  reconciliation  about 
to  take  place. 

Her  heart  throbbed  to  pour  itself  out,  and  atone  to  her  gal- 
lant lover  for  all  its  errors.  At  one  moment  she  would  place 
herself  in  a  conspicuous  situation,  where  she  might  catch  his 
view  at  once,  and  surprise  him  by  her  welcome  ;  but  the  next 
moment  a  doubt  would  come  across  her  mind,  and  she  would 
shrink  among  the  throng,  trembling  and  faint,  and  gasping  with 
her  emotions.  Her  agitation  increased  as  the  boat  drew  near, 
until  it  became  distressing ;  and  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  her 
when  she  perceived  that  her  lover  was  not  there.  She  presumed 


210  BRACEBEIDGE   HALL. 

that  some  accident  had  detained  him  on  board  of  the  ship,  and 
felt  that  the  delay  would  enable  her  to  gather  more  self- 
possession  for  the  meeting.  As  the  boat  neared  the  shore, 
many  inquiries  were  made,  and  laconic  answers  returned.  At 
length  Annette  heard  some  inquiries  after  her  lover.  Her  heart 
palpitated  —  there  was  a  moment's  pause  :  the  reply  was  brief, 
but  awful.  He  had  been  washed  from  the  deck,  with  two  of 
the  crew,  in  the  midst  of  a  stormy  night,  when  it  was  impossible 
to  render  any  assistance.  A  piercing  shriek  broke  from  among 
the  crowd  ;  and  Annette  had  nearly  fallen  into  the  waves. 

The  sudden  revulsion  of  feelings  after  such  a  transient  gleam 
of  happiness,  was  too  much  for  her  harassed  frame.  She  was 
carried  home  senseless.  Her  life  was  for  some  time  despaired 
of,  and  it  was  months  before  she  recovered  her  health  ;  but  she 
never  had  perfectly  recovered  her  mind :  it  still  remained  un- 
settled with  respect  to  her  lover's  fate. 

"  The  subject,"  continued  my  informant,  "  is  never  mentioned 
in  her  hearing ;  but  she  sometimes  speaks  of  it  herself,  and  it 
seems  as  though  there  were  some  vague  train  of  impressions  in 
her  mind,  in  which  hope  and  fear  are  strangely  mingled  —  some 
imperfect  idea  of  her  lover's  shipwreck,  and  yet  some  expecta- 
tion of  his  return. 

"  Her  parents  have  tried  every  means  to  cheer  her,  and  to 
banish  these  gloomy  images  from  her  thoughts.  They  assemble 
round  her  the  young  companions  in  whose  society  she  used  to 
delight ;  and  they  will  work,  and  chat,  and  sing,  and  laugh,  as 
formerly ;  but  she  will  sit  silently  among  them,  and  will  some- 
times weep  in  the  midst  of  their  gayety  ;  and,  if  spoken  to,  will 
make  no  reply,  but  look  up  with  streaming  eyes,  and  sing  a 
dismal  little  song,  which  she  has  learned  somewhere,  about 
a  shipwreck.  It  makes  every  one's  heart  ache  to  see  her  in  this 
way,  for  she  used  to  be  the  happiest  creature  in  the  village. 

"She  passes  the  greater  part  of  the  time  with  Eugene's 
mother;  whose  only  consolation  is  her  society,  and  who  dotes 
on  her  with  a  mother's  tenderness.  She  is  the  only  one  that 
has  perfect  influence  over  Annette  in  every  mood.  The  poor 
girl  seems,  as  formerly,  to  make  an  effort  to  be  cheerful  in  her 
company ;  but  will  sometimes  gaze  upon  her  with  the  most 
piteous  look,  and  then  kiss  her  gray  hairs,  and  fall  on  her  neck 
and  weep. 

"  She  is  not  always  melancholy,  however ;  there  are  occasional 
intervals,  when  she  will  be  bright  and  animated,  for  days 
together;  but  a  degree  of  wildness  attends  these  fits  of 
gayety,  that  prevents  their  yielding  any  satisfaction  to  her 


ANNETTE   VELARBRE.  211 

friends.  At  such  times  she  will  arrange  her  room,  which  is  all 
covered  with  pictures  of  ships  and  legends  of  saints;  and  will 
wreathe  a  white  chaplet,  as  if  for  a  wedding,  and  prepare  wed- 
ding ornaments.  She  will  listen  anxiously  at  the  door,  and 
look  frequently  out  at  the  window,  as  if  expecting  some  one's 
arrival.  It  is  supposed  that  at  such  times  she  is  looking  for 
her  lover's  return ;  but,  as  no  one  touches  upon  the  theme,  or 
mentions  his  name  in  her  presence,  the  current  of  her  thoughts 
is  mere  matter  of  conjecture.  Now  and  then  she  will  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  chapel  of  Notre  Dame  de  Grace  ;  where  she  will 
pray  for  hours  at  the  altar,  and  decorate  the  images  with  wreaths 
that  she  has  woven ;  or  will  wave  her  handkerchief  from  the 
terrace,  as  you  have  seen,  if  there  is  any  vessel  in  the  distance." 

Upwards  of  a  year,  he  informed  me,  had  now  elapsed  with- 
out effacing  from  her  mind  this  singular  taint  of  insanity; 
still  her  friends  hoped  it  might  gradually  wear  away.  They 
had  at  one  time  removed  her  to  a  distant  part  of  the  country, 
in  hopes  that  absence  from  the  scenes  connected  with  her  story 
might  have  a  salutary  effect ;  but,  when  her  periodical  melan- 
choly returned,  she  became  more  restless  and  wretched  than 
usual,  and,  secretly  escaping  from  her  friends,  set  out  on  foot, 
without  knowing  the  road,  on  one  of  her  pilgrimages  to  the 
chapel. 

This  little  story  entirely  drew  my  attention  from  the  gay 
scene  of  the  fete,  and  fixed  it  upon  the  beautiful  Annette. 
While  she  was  yet  standing  on  the  terrace,  the  vesper-bell 
rang  from  the  neighboring  chapel.  She  listened  for  a  moment, 
and  then  drawing  a  small  rosary  from  her  bosom,  walked  in 
that  direction.  Several  of  the  peasantry  followed  her  in 
silence  ;  and  I  felt  too  much  interested,  not  to  do  the  same. 

The  chapel,  as  I  said  before,  is  in  the  midst  of  a  grove,  on  the 
high  promontory.  The  inside  is  hung  round  with  little  models 
of  ships,  and  rude  paintings  of  wrecks  and  perils  at  sea,  and 
providential  deliverances  —  the  votive  offerings  of  captains  and 
crews  that  have  been  saved.  On  entering,  Annette  paused  for 
a  moment  before  a  picture  of  the  Virgin,  which,  I  observed,  had 
recently  been  decorated  with  a  wreath  of  artificial  flowers. 
When  she  reached  the  middle  of  the  chapel  she  knelt  down, 
and  those  who  followed  her  involuntarily  did  the  same  at  a 
little  distance.  The  evening  sun  shone  softly  through  the 
checkered  grove  into  one  window  of  the  chapel.  A  perfect 
stillness  reigned  within  ;  and  this  stillness  was  the  more  impres- 
sive contrasted  with  the  distant  sound  of  music  and  merriment 
from  the  fair.  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  off  from  the  poor  sup- 


212  BRACEBEIDGE   HALL. 

pliant ;  her  lips  moved  as  she  told  her  beads,  but  her  prayers 
were  breathed  in  silence.  It  might  have  been  mere  fancy 
excited  by  the  scene,  that,  as  she  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  1 
thought  they  had  an  expression  truly  seraphic.  But  I  am 
easily  affected  by  female  beauty,  and  there  was  something  in 
this  mixture  of  love,  devotion,  and  partial  insanity,  inexpres- 
sibly touching. 

As  the  poor  girl  left  the  chapel,  there  was  a  sweet  serenity  in 
her  looks ;  and  I  was  told  she  would  return  home,  and  in  all 
probability  be  calm  and  cheerful  for  days,  and  even  weeks ; 
in  which  time  it  was  supposed  that  hope  predominated  in  her 
mental  maladv ;  and  when  the  dark  side  of  her  mind,  as  her 
friends  call  it,"  was  about  to  turn  up,  it  would  be  known  by  her 
neglecting  her  distaff  or  her  lace,  singing  plaintive  songs,  and 
weeping  in  silence. 

She  passed  on  from  the  chapel  without  noticing  the  fete,  but 
smiling  and  speaking  to  many  as  she  passed.  I  followed  her 
with  my  eye  as  she  descended  the  winding  road  towards  Hon- 
fleur,  leaning  on  her  father's  arm.  "  TTRyrgn,"  thmwh+.  T  "  ha  a 
ever  its  store  of  balms  for  the  hurt  mind  and  wounded  spirit, 
-and "may  in  time  rear  up  this  broken  flower  to  be  once  more 
the  pride  and  joy  of  the  valley.  The  very  delusion  in  which 
the  poor  girl  walks,  may  be  one  of  those  mists  kindly  diffused 
by  Providence  over  the  regions  of  thought,  when  they  become 
too  fruitful  of  misery.  The  veil  may  gradually  be  raised  which 
obscures  the  horizon  of  her  mind,  as  she  is  enabled  steadily  and 
calmly  to  contemplate  the  sorrows  at  present  hidden  in  mercy 
from  her  view." 

On  my  return  from  Paris,  about  a  year  afterwards,  I  turned 
off  from  the  beaten  route  at  Rouen,  to  revisit  some  of  the  most 
striking  scenes  of  Lower  Normandy.  Having  passed  through 
the  lovely  country  of  the  Pays  d'Auge,  I  reached  Houfleur  on 
a  fine  afternoon,  intending  to  cross  to  Havre  the  next  morning, 
and  embark  for  England.  As  I  had  no  better  way  of  passing 
the  evening,  I  strolled  up  the  hill  to  enjoy  the  fine  prospect 
from  the  chapel  of  Notre  Dame  de  Grace ;  and  while  there,  I 
thought  of  inquiring  after  the  fate  of  poor  Annette  Delarbre. 
The  priest  who  had  told  me  her  story  was  officiating  at  vespers, 
after  which  I  accosted  him,  and  learnt  from  him  the  remaining 
circumstances.  He  told  me  that  from  the  time  I  had  seen  her 
at  the  chapel,  her  disorder  took  a  sudden  turn  for  the  worse, 
and  her  health  rapidly  declined.  Her  cheerful  intervals  became 
shorter  and  less  frequent,  and  attended  with  more  incoherency. 


ANNETTE   DELABBRE.  213 

She  grew  languid,  silent,  and  moody  in  her  melancholy;  her 
form  was  wasted,  her  looks  were  pale  and  disconsolate,  and  it 
was  feared  she  would  never  recover.  She  became  impatient  of 
all  sounds  of  gayety,  and  was  never  so  contented  as  when 
Eugene's  mother  was  near  her.  The  good  woman  watched  over 
her  with  patient,  yearning  solicitude  ;  and  in  seeking  to  beguile 
her  sorrows,  would  half  forget  her  own.  Sometimes,  as  she 
sat  looking  upon  her  pallid  face,  the  tears  would  fill  her  eyes, 
which,  when  Annette  perceived,  she  would  anxiously  wipe  them 
away,  and  tell  her  not  to  grieve,  for  that  Eugene  would  soon 
return ;  and  then  she  would  affect  a  forced  gayety,  as  in  former 
times,  and  sing  a  lively  air ;  but  a  sudden  recollection  would 
come  over  her,  and  she  would  burst  into  tears,  hang  on  the 
poor  mother's  neck,  and  entreat  her  not  to  curse  her  for  having 
destroyed  her  son. 

Just  at  this  time,  to  the  astonishment  of  every  one,  news  was 
received  of  Eugene ;  who,  it  appears,  was  still  living.  When 
almost  drowned,  he  had  fortunately  seized  upon  a  spar  washed 
from  the  ship's  deck.  Finding  himself  nearly  exhausted,  he 
fastened  himself  to  it,  and  floated  for  a  day  and  night,  until  all 
sense  left  him.  On  recovering,  he  found  himself  on  board  a 
vessel  bound  to  India,  but  so  ill  as  not  to  move  without 
assistance.  His  health  continued  precarious  throughout  the 
voyage  ;  on  arriving  in  India,  he  experienced  many  vicissitudes, 
and  was  transferred  from  ship  to  ship,  and  hospital  to  hospital. 
His  constitution  enabled  him  to  struggle  through  every  hard- 
ship ;  and  he  was  now  in  a  distant  port,  waiting  only  for  the 
sailing  of  a  ship  to  return  home. 

Great  caution  was  necessary  in  imparting  these  tidings  to  the 
mother,  and  even  then  she  was  nearly  overcome  by  the  trans- 
ports of  her  joy.  But  how  to  impart  them  to  Annette,  was  a 
matter  of  still  greater  perplexity.  Her  state  of  mind  had  been 
so  morbid ;  she  had  been  subject  to  such  violent  changes,  and 
the  cause  of  her  derangement  had  been  of  such  an  inconsolable 
and  hopeless  kind,  that  her  friends  had  always  forborne  to 
tamper  with  her  feelings.  They  had  never  even  hinted  at  the 
subject  of  her  griefs,  nor  encouraged  the  theme  when  she  ad- 
verted to  it,  but  had  passed  it  over  in  silence,  hoping  that  time 
would  gradually  wear  the  traces  of  it  from  her  recollection,  or, 
at  least,  would  render  them  less  painful.  They  now  felt  at  a 
loss  how  to  undeceive  her  even  in  her  misery,  lest  the  sudden 
recurrence  of  happiness  might  confirm  the  estrangement  of  her 
reason,  or  might  overpower  her  enfeebled  frame.  They  ven- 


214  BRACEBKIDGE   HALL. 

tured,  however,  to  probe  those  wounds  which  they  formerly  did 
not  dare  to  touch,  for  they  now  had  the  balm  to  pour  into 
them.  They  led  the  conversation  to  those  topics  which  they 
had  hitherto  shunned,  and  endeavored  to  ascertain  the  current 
of  her  thoughts  in  those  varying  moods  which  had  formerly  per- 
plexed them.  They  found,  however,  that  her  mind  was  even 
more  affected  than  they  had  imagined.  All  her  ideas  were 
confused  and  wandering.  Her  bright  and  cheerful  moods, 
which  now  grew  seldomer  than  ever,  were  all  the  effects  of 
mental  delusion.  At  such  times  she  had  no  recollection  of  her 
lover's  having  been  in  clanger,  but  was  only  anticipating  his 
arrival.  "  When  the  winter  has  passed  away,"  said  she,  "  and 
the  trees  put  on  their  blossoms,  and  the  swallow  comes  back 
over  the  sea,  he  will  return."  When  she  was  drooping  and 
desponding,  it  was  in  vain  to  remind  her  of  what  she  had  said 
in  her  gayer  moments,  and  to  assure  her  that  Eugene  would 
indeed  return  shortly.  She  wept  on  in  silence,  and  appeared 
insensible  to  their  words.  But  at  times  her  agitation  became 
violent,  when  she  would  upbraid  herself  with  having  driven 
Eugene  from  his  mother,  and  brought  sorrow  on  her  gray  hairs. 
Her  mind  admitted  but  one  leading  idea  at  a  time,  which  noth- 
ing could  divert  or  efface ;  or  if  they  ever  succeeded  in  inter- 
rupting the  current  of  her  fancy,  it  only  became  the  more 
incoherent,  and  increased  the  feverishness  that  preyed  upon 
both  mind  and  body.  Her  friends  felt  more  alarm  for  her  than 
ever,  for  they  feared  her  senses  were  irrecoverably  gone,  and 
her  constitution  completely  undermined. 

In  the  mean  time,  Eugene  returned  to  the  village.  He  was 
violently  affected,  when  the  story  of  Annette  was  told  him. 
With  bitterness  of  heart  he  upbraided  his  own  rashness  and 
infatuation  that  had  hurried  him  away  from  her,  and  accused 
himself  as  the  author  of  all  her  woes.  His  mother  would  de- 
scribe to  him  all  the  anguish  and  remorse  of  poor  Annette  ;  the 
tenderness  with  which  she  clung  to  her,  and  endeavored,  even 
in  the  midst  of  her  insanity,  to  console  her  for  the  loss  of  her 
son,  and  the  touching  expressions  of  affection  mingled  with 
her  most  incoherent  wanderings  of  thought,  until  his  feelings 
would  be  wound  up  to  agony,  and  he  would  entreat  her  to 
desist  from  the  recital.  They  did  not  dare  as  yet  to  bring  him 
into  Annette's  sight;  but  he  was  permitted  to  see  her  when 
she  was  sleeping.  The  tears  streamed  down  his  sunburnt 
cheeks,  as  he  contemplated  the  ravages  which  grief  and 
malady  had  made ;  and  his  heart  swelled  almost  to  breaking, 
as  he  beheld  round  her  neck  the  very  braid  of  hair  which  she 


ANNETTE  DELARBEE.  215 

once  gave  him  in  token  of  girlish  affection,  and  which  he  had 
returned  to  her  in  anger. 

At  length  the  physician  that  attended  her  determined  to  ad- 
venture upon  an  experiment,  to  take  advantage  of  one  of  those 
cheerful  moods  when  her  mind  was  visited  by  hope,  and  to 
endeavor  to  ingraft,  as  it  were,  the  reality  upon  the  delusions 
of  her  fancy.  These  moods  had  now  become  very  rare,  for 
nature  was  sinking  under  the  continual  pressure  of  her  mental 
malady,  and  the  principle  of  reaction  was  daily  growing  weaker. 
Every  effort  was  tried  to  bring  on  a  cheerful  interval  of  the 
kind.  Several  of  her  most  favorite  companions  were  kept 
continually  about  her ;  they  chatted  gayly,  they  laughed,  and 
sang,  and  danced ;  but  Annette  reclined  with  languid  frame 
and  hollow  eye,  and  took  no  part  in  their  gayety.  At  length 
the  winter  was  gone ;  the  trees  put  forth  their  leaves ;  the 
swallows  began  to  build  in  the  eaves  of  the  house,  and  the 
robin  and  wren  piped  all  day  beneath  the  window.  Annette's 
spirits  gradually  revived.  She  began  to  deck  her  person 
•with  unusual  care  ;  and  bringing  forth  a  basket  of  artificial  flow- 
ers, went  to  work  to  wreathe  a  bridal  chaplet  of  white  roses. 
Her  companions  asked  her  why  she  prepared  the  chaplet. 
"What!"  said  she  with  a  smile,  "have  you  not  noticed  the 
trees  putting  on  their  wedding  dresses  of  blossoms  ?  Has  not 
the  swallow  flown  back  over  the  sea?  Do  you  not  know  that 
the  time  is  come  for  Eugene  to  return  ?  that  he  will  be  home 
to-morrow,  and  that  on  Sunday  we  are  to  be  married?  " 

Her  words  were  repeated  to  the  physician,  and  he  seized  on 
them  at  once.  He  directed  that  her  idea  should  be  encouraged 
and  acted  upon.  Her  words  were  echoed  through  the  house. 
Every  one  talked  of  the  return  of  Eugene,  as  a  matter  of 
course ;  they  congratulated  her  upon  her  approaching  happi- 
ness, and  assisted  her  in  her  preparations.  The  next  morning, 
the  same  theme  was  resumed.  She  was  dressed  out  to  receive 
her  lover.  Every  bosom  fluttered  with  anxiety.  A  cabriolet 
drove  into  the  village.  "Eugene  is  coming!"  was  the  cry. 
She  saw  him  alight  at  the  door,  and  rushed  with  a  shriek  into 
his  arms. 

Her  friends  trembled  for  the  result  of  this  critical  experi- 
ment ;  but  she  did  not  sink  under  it,  for  her  fancy  had  prepared 
her  for  his  return.  She  was  as  one  in  a  dream,  to  whom  a 
tide  of  unlooked-for  prosperity,  that  would  have  overwhelmed 
his  waking  reason,  seems  but  the  natural  current  of  circum- 
stances. Her  conversation,  however,  showed  that  her  senses 
were  wandering.  There  was  an  absolute  forgetfulness  of  all 


216  BBACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

past  sorrow  —  a  wild  and  feverish  gayety,  that  at  times  was 
incoherent. 

The  next  morning,  she  awoke  languid  and  exnausted.  All 
the  occurrences  of  the  preceding  day  had  passed  away  from 
her  mind,  as  though  they  had  been  the  mere  illusions  of  her 
fancy.  She  rose  melancholy  and  abstracted,  and,  as  she 
dressed  herself,  was  heard  to  sing  one  of  her  plaintive  ballads. 
When  she  entered  the  parlor,  her  eyes  were  swollen  with  weep- 
ing. She  heard  Eugene's  voice  without,  and  started ;  passed 
her  hand  across  her  forehead,  and  stood  musing,  like  one  en- 
deavoring to  recall  a  dream.  Eugene  entered  the  room,  and 
advanced  towards  her ;  she  looked  at  him  with  an  eager,  search- 
ing look,  murmured  some  indistinct  words,  and,  before  he  could 
reach  her,  sank  upon  the  floor. 

She  relapsed  into  a  wild  and  unsettled  state  of  mind ;  but 
now  that  the  first  shock  was  over,  the  physician  ordered  that 
Eugene  should  keep  continually  in  her  sight.  Sometimes  she 
did  not  know  him ;  at  other  times  she  would  talk  to  him  as  if 
he  were  going  to  sea,  and  would  implore  him  not  to  part  from 
her  in  anger ;  and  when  he  was  not  present,  she  would  speak 
of  him  as  if  buried  in  the  ocean,  and  would  sit,  with  clasped 
hands,  looking  upon  the  ground,  the  picture  of  despair. 

As  the  agitation  of  her  feelings  subsided,  and  her  frame  re- 
covered from  the  shock  it  had  received,  she  became  more  placid 
and  coherent.  Eugene  kept  almost  continually  near  her.  He 
formed  the  real  object  round  which  her  scattered  ideas  once 
more  gathered,  and  which  linked  them  once  more  with  the 
realities  of  life.  But  her  changeful  disorder  now  appeared  to 
take  a  new  turn.  She  became  languid  and  inert,  and  would  sit 
for  hours  silent,  and  almost  in  a  state  of  lethargy.  If  roused 
from  this  stupor,  it  seemed  as  if  her  mind  would  make  some 
attempt  to  follow  up  a  train  of  thought,  but  would  soon  become 
confused.  She  would  regard  every  one  that  approached  her 
with  an  anxious  and  inquiring  eye,  that  seemed  continually  to 
disappoint  itself.  Sometimes,  as  her  lover  sat  holding  her  hand, 
she  would  look  pensively  in  his  face  without  saying  a  word, 
until  his  heart  was  overcome ;  and  after  these  transient  fits  of 
intellectual  exertion,  she  would  sink  again  into  lethargy. 

By  degrees,  this  stupor  increased ;  her  mind  appeared  to  have 
subsided  into  a  stagnant  and  almost  death-like  calm.  For  the 
greater  part  of  the  time,  her  eyes  were  closed ;  her  face  almost 
as  fixed  and  passionless  as  that  of  a  corpse.  She  no  longer 
took  any  notice  of  surrounding  objects.  There  was  an  awfulness 
in  this  tranquillity,  that  filled  her  friends  with  apprehensions. 


ANNETTE  DELARBBE.  217 

The  physician  ordered  that  she  should  be  kept  perfectly  quiet  -, 
or  that,  if  she  evinced  any  agitation,  she  should  be  gently  lulled 
'.ike  a  child,  by  some  favorite  tune. 

She  remained  in  this  state  for  hours,  hardly  seeming  to 
breathe,  and  apparently  sinking  into  the  sleep  of  death.  Her 
chamber  was  profoundly  still.  The  attendants  moved  about  it 
with  noiseless  tread ;  every  thing  was  communicated  by  signs 
and  whispers.  Her  lover  sat  by  her  side,  watching  her  with 
painful  anxiety,  and  fearing  every  breath  which  stole  from  her 
pale  lips  would  be  the  last. 

At  length  she  heaved  a  deep  sigh  ;  and,  from  some  convulsive 
motions,  appeared  to  be  troubled  in  her  sleep.  Her  agitation 
increased,  accompanied  by  an  indistinct  moaning.  One  of  her 
companions,  remembering  the  physician's  instructions,  endeav- 
ored to  lull  her  by  singing,  in  a  low  voice,  a  tender  little  air, 
which  was  a  particular  favorite  of  Annette's.  Probably  it  had 
some  connection  in  her  mind  with  her  own  story ;  for  every 
fond  girl  has  some  ditty  of  the  kind,  linked  in  her  thoughts 
with  sweet  and  sad  remembrances. 

As  she  sang,  the  agitation  of  Annette  subsided.  A  streak 
of  faint  color  came  into  her  cheeks,  her  eyelids  became  swollen 
with  rising  tears,  which  trembled  there  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
stealing  forth,  coursed  down  her  pallid  cheek.  When  the  song 
was  ended,  she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  about  her,  as  one 
awakening  in  a  strange  place. 

"Oh,  Eugene !  Eugene !  "  said  she,  "  it  seems  as  if  I  have 
had  a  long  and  dismal  dream ;  what  has  happened,  and  what 
has  been  the  matter  with  me?  " 

The  questions  were  embarrassing ;  and  before  they  could  be 
answered,  the  physician,  who  was  in  the  next  room,  entered. 
She  took  him  by  the  hand,  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  made  the 
same  inquiry.  He  endeavored  to  put  her  off  with  some  evasive 
answer  ;  —  "  No,  no !  "  cried  she,  "  I  know  I  have  been  ill,  and 
I  have  been  dreaming  strangely.  I  thought  Eugene  had  left  us 

—  and  that  he  had  gone  to  sea  —  and  that  —  and  that  he  was 
drowned  !  —  But  he  has  been  to  sea  !  "  added  she,  earnestly,  as 
recollection  kept  flashing  upon  her,  "  and  he  has  been  wrecked 

—  and  we  were  all  so  wretched  —  and  he  came  home  again  one 

bright  morning  —  and Oh  !  "  said  she,  pressing  her  hand 

against  her  forehead,  with  a  sickly  smile,  "  I  see  how  it  is ;  all 
has  not  been  right  here  :  I  begin  to  recollect  —  but  it  is  all  past 
now  —  Eugene  is  here  !  and  his  mother  is  happy  —  and  we  will 
never  —  never  part  again  —  shall  we,  Eugene?" 

She  sunk  back  in  her  chair,  exhausted;   the  tears  streamed 


218  BEACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

down  her  cheeks.  Her  companions  hovered  round  her,  not 
knowing  what  to  make  of  this  sudden  dawn  of  reason.  Her 
lover  sobbed  aloud.  She  opened  her  eyes  again,  and  looked 
upon  them  with  an  air  of  the  sweetest  acknowledgment.  "  You 
are  all  so  good  to  me !  "  said  she,  faintly. 

The  physician  drew  the  father  aside.  "  Your  daughter's 
mind  is  restored,"  said  he  ;  "  she  is  sensible  that  she  has  been 
deranged ;  she  is  growing  conscious  of  the  past,  and  conscious 
of  the  present.  All  that  now  remains  is  to  keep  her  calm  and 
quiet  until  her  health  is  re-established,  and  then  let  her  be 
married  in  God's  name  !  " 

"  The  wedding  took  place,"  continued  the  good  priest,  "  but 
a  short  time  since  ;  they  were  here  at  the  last  fete  during  their 
honeymoon,  and  a  handsomer  and  happier  couple  was  not  to 
be  seen  as  they  danced  under  yonder  trees.  The  young  man, 
his  wife,  and  mother,  now  live  on  a  fine  farm  at  Pont  1'Eveque ; 
and  that  model  of  a  ship  which  you  see  yonder,  with  white 
flowers  wreathed  round  it,  is  Annette's  offering  of  thanks  to 
Our  Lady  of  Grace,  for  having  listened  to  her  prayers,  and 
protected  her  lover  in  the  hour  of  peril." 

The  captain  having  finished,  there  was  a  momentary  silence. 
The  tender-hearted  Lady  Lilycraft,  who  knew  the  story  by 
heart,  had  led  the  way  in  weeping,  and  indeed  often  began  to 
shed  tears  before  they  came  to  the  right  place. 

The  fair  Julia  was  a  little  flurried  at  the  passage  where 
wedding  preparations  were  mentioned ;  but  the  auditor  most 
affected  was  the  simple  Phoebe  Wilkins.  She  had  gradually 
dropt  her  work  in  her  lap,  and  sat  sobbing  through  the  latter 
part  of  the  story,  until  towards  the  end,  when  the  happy  reverse 
had  nearly  produced  another  scene  of  hysterics.  "Go,  take 
this  case  to  my  room  again,  child,"  said  Lady  Lillycraft,  kindly, 
"  and  don't  cry  so  much." 

"  I  won't,  an't  please  your  ladyship,  if  I  can  help  it; — but 
I'm  glad  they  made  all  up  again,  and  were  married." 

By  the  way,  the  case  of  this  lovelorn  damsel  begins  to  make 
some  talk  in  the  household,  especially  among  certain  little 
ladies,  not  far  in  their  teens,  of  whom  she  has  made  confidants. 
She  is  a  great  favorite  with  them  all,  but  particularly  so  since 
she  has  confided  to  them  her  love  secrets.  They  enter  into  her 
concerns  with  all  the  violent  zeal  and  overwhelming  sympathy 
with  which  little  boarding-school  ladies  engage  in  the  politics 
of  a  love  affair. 

I  have  noticed  them  frequently  clustering  about  her  in  private 
conferences,  or  walking  up  and  down  the  garden  terrace  under 


TRAVELLING.  219 

my  window,  listening  to  some  long  and  dolorous  story  of  her 
afflictions ;  of  which  I  could  now  and  then  distinguish  the  ever- 
recurring  phrases,  "  says  he,"  and  "  says  she." 

I  accidentally  interrupted  one  of  these  little  councils  of  war, 
when  they  were  all  huddled  together  under  a  tree,  and  seemed 
to  be  earnestly  considering  some  interesting  document.  The 
flutter  at  my  approach  showed  that  there  were  some  secrets 
under  discussion  ;  and  I  observed  the  disconsolate  Phoebe  crum- 
pling into  her  bosom  either  a  love-letter  or  an  old  valentine,  and 
brushing  away  the  tears  from  her  cheeks. 

The  girl  is  a  good  girl,  of  a  soft  melting  nature,  and  shows 
her  concern  at  the  cruelty  of  her  lover  only  in  tears  and  droop- 
ing looks ;  but  with  the  little  ladies  who  have  espoused  her 
cause,  it  sparkles  up  into  fiery  indignation  :  and  I  have  noticed 
on  Sunday  many  a  glance  darted  at  the  pew  of  the  Tibbets's 
enough  even  to  melt  down  the  silver  buttons  on  old  Ready- 
Money's  jacket. 


TRAVELLING. 

A  citizen,  for  recreation  pake, 

To  see  the  country  would  a  journey  take 

Borne  dozen  mile,  or  very  little  more; 

Taking  his  leave  with  friends  two  months  before, 

With  drinking  healths,  and  shaking  by  the  hand, 

As  he  had  travail'd  to  some  new-found  land. 

Doctor  Merrie-Man,  1609. 

THE  Squire  has  lately  received  another  shock  in  the  saddle, 
and  been  almost  unseated  by  his  marplot  neighbor,  the  inde- 
fatigable Mr.  Faddy,  who  rides  his  jog-trot  hobby  with  equal 
zeal ;  and  is  so  bent  upon  improving  and  reforming  the  neigh- 
borhood, that  the  Squire  thinks,  in  a  little  while,  it  will  be 
scarce  worth  living  in.  The  enormity  that  has  thus  discom- 
posed my  worthy  host,  is  an  attempt  of  the  manufacturer  to 
have  a  line  of  coaches  established,  that  shall  diverge  from  the 
old  route,  and  pass  through  the  neighboring  village. 

I  believe  I  have  mentioned  that  the  hall  is  situated  in  a  re- 
tired part  of  the  country,  at  a  distance  from  any  great  coach- 
road  ;  insomuch  that  the  arrival  of  a  traveller  is  apt  to  make 
every  one  look  out  of  the  window,  and  to  cause  some  talk 
among  the  ale-drinkers  at  the  little  inn.  I  was  at  a  lose,  there- 
fore, to  account  for  the  Squire's  indignation  at  a  measure  ap- 


220  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

parc-ntly  fraught  with  convenience  and  advantage,  until  I  found 
that  the  conveniences  of  travelling  were  among  his  greatest 
grievances. 

In  fact,  he  rails  against  stage-coaches,  post-chaises,  and  turn- 
pike-roads, as  serious  causes  of  the  corruption  of  English  rural 
manners.  They  have  given  facilities,  he  says,  to  every  hum- 
drum citizen  to  trundle  his  family  about  the  kingdom,  and  have 
sent  the  follies  and  fashions  of  town,  whirling,  in  coach-loads, 
to  the  remotest  parts  of  the  island.  The  whole  country,  he 
says,  is  traversed  by  these  flying  cargoes  ;  every  by-road  is  ex- 
plored by  enterprising  tourists  from  Cheapside  and  the  Poultry, 
and  every  gentleman's  park  and  lawns  invaded  by  cockney 
sketchers  of  both  sexes,  with  portable  chairs  and  portfolios 
for  drawing. 

He  laments  over  this,  as  destroying  the  charm  of  privacy, 
and  interrupting  the  quiet  of  country  life  ;  but  more  especially 
as  affecting  the  simplicity  of  the  peasantry,  and  filling  their 
heads  with  half-city  notions.  A  great  coach-inn,  he  says,  is 
enough  to  ruin  the  manners  of  a  whole  village.  It  creates  a 
horde  of  sots  and  idlers,  makes  gapers  and  gazers  and  news- 
mongers of  the  common  people,  and  knowing  jockeys  of  the 
country  bumpkins. 

The  Squire  has  something  of  the  old  feudal  feeling.  He 
looks  back  with  regret  to  the  "  good  old  times  "  when  journej-s 
were  only  made  on  horseback,  and  the  extraordinary  difficulties 
of  travelling,  owing  to  bad  roads,  bad  accommodations,  and  high- 
way robbers,  seemed  to  separate  each  village  and  hamlet  from 
the  rest  of  the  world.  The  lord  of  the  manor  was  then  a  kind 
of  monarch  in  the  little  realm  around  him.  He  held  his  court 
in  his  paternal  hall,  and  was  looked  up  to  with  almost  as  much 
loyalty  and  deference  as  the  king  himself.  Every  neighbor- 
hood was  a  little  world  within  itself,  having  its  local  manners 
and  customs,  its  local  history  and  local  opinions.  The  inhabit- 
ants were  fonder  of  their  homes,  and  thought  less  of  wander- 
ing. It  was  looked  upon  as  an  expedition  to  travel  out  of  sight 
of  the  parish  steeple ;  and  a  man  that  had  been  to  London  was 
a  village  oracle  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

What  a  difference  between  the  mode  of  travelling  in  those 
days  and  at  present !  At  that  time,  when  a  gentleman  went  on 
a  distant  visit,  he  sallied  forth  like  a  knight-errant  on  an  enter- 
prise, and  every  family  excursion  was  a  pageant.  How  splen- 
did and  fanciful  must  one  of  those  domestic  cavalcades  have  been, 
where  the  beautiful  dames  were  mounted  on  palfreys  magnifi- 
cently caparisoned,  with  embroidered  harness,  all  tinkling  with 


TRAVELLING,  221 

silver  bells,  attended  by  cavaliers  richly  attired  on  prancing 
steeds,  and  followed  by  pages  and  serving-men,  as  we  see  them 
represented  in  old  tapestry !  The  gentry,  as  they  travelled 
about  in  those  days,  were  like  moving  pictures.  They  delighted 
the  eyes  and  awakened  the  admiration  of  the  common  people, 
and  passed  before  them  like  superior  beings ;  and,  indeed,  they 
were  so ;  there  was  a  hardy  and  healthful  exercise  connected 
with  this  equestrian  style  that  made  them  generous  and  noble. 

In  his  fondness  for  the  old  style  of  travelling,  the  Squire 
makes  most  of  his  journeys  on  horseback,  though  he  laments 
the  modern  deficiency  of  incident  on  the  road,  from  the  want 
of  fellow-wayfarers,  and  the  rapidity  with  which  every  one  else 
is  whirled  along  in  coaches  and  post-chaises.  In  the  "  good  old 
times,"  on  the  contrary,  a  cavalier  jogged  on  through  bog  and 
mire,  from  town  to  town  and  hamlet  to  hamlet,  conversing  with 
friars  and  franklins,  and  all  other  chance  companions  of  the 
road ;  beguiling  the  way  with  travellers'  tales,  which  then  were 
truly  wonderful,  for  every  thing  beyond  one's  neighborhood 
was  full  of  marvel  and  romance ;  stopping  at  night  at  some 
"  hostel,"  where  the  bush  over  the  door  proclaimed  good  wine, 
or  a  pretty  hostess  made  bad  wine  palatable ;  meeting  at  sup- 
per with  travellers,  or  listening  to  the  song  or  merry  story  of 
the  host,  who  was  generally  a  boon  companion,  and  presided 
at  his  own  board ;  for,  according  to  old  Tusser's  "  Innholder's 
Posie," 

"  At  meales  my  friend  who  vitleth  here 

And  sitteth  with  his  boat, 
Shall  both  be  sure  of  better  cheerc, 
And  'scape  with  lesser  cost." 

The  Squire  is  fond,  too,  of  stopping  at  those  inns  which  may 
be  met  with  here  and  there  in  ancient  houses  of  wood  and 
plaster,  or  calimanco  houses,  as  they  are  called  by  antiquaries, 
with  deep  porches,  diamond -paned  bow -windows,  panelled 
rooms,  and  great  fireplaces.  He  will  prefer  them  to  more  spa- 
cious and  modern  inns,  and  would  cheerfully  put  up  with  bad 
cheer  and  bad  accommodations  in  the  gratification  of  his  humor. 
They  give  him,  he  says,  the  feeling  of  old  times,  insomuch  that 
he  almost  expects  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  to  see  some  party 
of  weary  travellers  ride  up  to  the  door  with  plumes  and  mantles, 
trunk-hose,  wide  boots,  and  long  rapiers. 

The  good  Squire's  remarks  brought  to  mind  a  visit  I  once 
paid  to  the  Tabard  Inn,  famous  for  being  the  place  of 
assemblage  whence  Chaucer's  pilgrims  set  forth  for  Can* 


222  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

terbury.  It  is  in  the  borough  of  Southwark,  not  far  from  Lon- 
don Bridge,  and  bears,  at  present,  the  name  of  "  the  Talbot." 
It  has  sadly  declined  in  dignity  since  the  days  of  Chaucer, 
being  a  mere  rendezvous  and  packing-place  of  the  great  wagons 
that  travel  into  Kent.  The  court-yard,  which  was  anciently  the 
mustering-place  of  the  pilgrims  previous  to  their  departure, 
was  now  lumbered  with  huge  wagons.  Crates,  boxes,  ham- 
pers, and  baskets,  containing  the  good  things  of  town  and 
country,  were  piled  about  them ;  while,  among  the  straw  and 
litter,  the  mothe.rly  hens  scratched  and  clucked,  with  their 
hungry  broods  at  their  heels.  Instead  of  Chaucer's  motley  and 
splendid  throng,  I  only  saw  a  group  of  wagoners  and  stable- 
boys  enjoying  a  circulating  pot  of  ale  ;  while  a  long-bodied  dog 
sat  by,  with  head  on  one  side,  ear  cocked  up,  and  wistful  gaze, 
as  if  waiting  for  his  turn  at  the  tankard. 

Notwithstanding  this  grievous  declension,  however,  I  was 
gratified  at  perceiving  that  the  present  occupants  were  not 
unconscious  of  the  poetical  renown  of  their  mansion.  An  in- 
scription over  the  gateway  proclaimed  it  to  be  the  inn  where 
Chaucer's  pilgrims  slept  on  the  night  previous  to  their  depart- 
ure ;  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  yard  was  a  magnificent  sign  rep- 
resenting them  in  the  act  of  sallying  forth.  I  was  pleased,  too, 
at  noticing  that  though  the  present  inn  was  comparatively 
modern,,  the  form  of  the  old  inn  was  preserved.  There  were 
galleries  round  the  yard,  as  in  old  times,  on  which  opened  the 
chambers  of  the  guests.  To  these  ancient  inns  have  antiqua- 
ries ascribed  the  present  forms  of  our  theatres.  Plays  were 
originally  acted  in  inn-yards.  The  guests  lolled  over  the  gal- 
leries, which  answered  to  our  modern  dress-circle  ;  the  critical 
mob  clustered  in  the  yard,  instead  of  the  pit ;  and  the  groups 
gazing  from  the  garret  windows  were  no  bad  representatives  of 
the  gods  of  the  shilling  gallery.  When,  therefore,  the  drama 
grew  important  enough  to  have  a  house  of  its  own,  the  archi- 
tects took  a  hint  for  its  construction  from  the  yard  of  the 
ancient  "hostel." 

I  was  so  well  pleased  at  finding  these  remembrances  of 
Chaucer  and  his  poem,  that  I  ordered  my  dinner  in  the  little 
parlor  of  the  Talbot.  Whilst  it  was  preparing,  I  sat  at  the 
window  musing  and  gazing  into  the  court-yard,  and  conjuring 
up  recollections  of  the  scenes  depicted  in  such  lively  colors  by 
the  poet,  until,  by  degrees,  boxes,  bales  and  hampers,  boys, 
wagoners  and  dogs,  faded  from  sight,  and  my  fancy  peopled 
the  place  with  the  motley  throng  of  Canterbury^  pilgrims.  The 
galleries  once  more  swarmed  with  idle  gazers,  in  the  rich 


TRAVELLING.  223 

dresses  of  Chaucer's  time,  and  the  whole  cavalcade  seemed  to 
pass  before  me.  There  was  the  stately  knight  on  sober  steed, 
who  had  ridden  in  Christendom  and  heathenesse,  and  had 
"  foughten  for  our  faith  at  Tramissene  ;  "  —  and  his  son,  the 
young  squire,  a  lover,  and  a  lusty  bachelor,  with  curled  locks 
and  gay  embroidery ;  a  bold  rider,  a  dancer,  and  a  writer  of 
verses,  singing  and  fluting  all  day  long,  and  "fresh  as  the 
month  of  May;" — and  his  "knot-headed"  yeoman;  a  bold 
forester,  in  green,  with  horn,  and  baudrick,  and  dagger,  a 
mighty  bow  in  hand,  and  a  sheaf  of  Peacock  arrows  shining 
beneath  his  belt;  —  and  the  coy,  smiling,  simple  nun,  with  her 
gray  eyes,  her  small  red  mouth,  and  fair  forehead,  her  dainty 
person  clad  in  featly  cloak  and  "  'ypinched  wimple,"  her  choral 
beads  about  her  arm,  her  golden  brooch  with  a  love  motto,  and 
her  pretty  oath  by  Saint  Eloy  ;  —  and  the  merchant,  solemn  in 
speech  and  high  on  horse,  with  forked  beard  and  "  Flaundrish 
bever  hat ;  "  —  and  the  lusty  monk,  "  full  fat  and  in  good  point," 
with  berry  brown  palfrey,  his  hood  fastened  with  gold  pin, 
wrought  with  a  love-knot,  his  bald  head  shining  like  glass,  and 
his  face  glistening  as  though  it  had  been  anointed ;  and  the 
lean,  logical,  sententious  clerk  of  Oxenforde,  upon  his  half- 
starved,  scholar-like  horse  ;  —  and  the  bowsing  sompnour,  with 
fiery  cherub  face,  all  knobbed  with  pimples,  an  eater  of  garlic 
and  onions,  and  drinker  of  "  strong  wine,  red  as  blood,"  that 
carried  a  cake  for  a  buckler,  and  babbled  Latin  in  his  cups  ;  of 
whose  brimstone  visage  "  children  were  sore  aferd  ;  "  —  and  the 
buxom  wife  of  Bath,  the  widow  of  five  husbands,  upon  her 
ambling  nag,  with  her  hat  broad  as  a  buckler,  her  red  stock- 
ings and  sharp  spurs  ;  —  and  the  slender,  choleric  reeve  of  Nor- 
folk, bestriding  his  good  gray  stot ;  with  close-shaven  beard, 
his  hair  cropped  round  his  ears,  long,  lean,  calfless  legs,  and  a 
rusty  blade  by  his  side  ;  —  and  the  jolly  Limitour,  with  lisping 
tongue  and  twinkling  eye,  well-beloved  of  franklins  and  house- 
wives, a  great  promoter  of  marriages  among  young  women, 
known  at  the  taverns  in  every  town,  and  by  every  "  hosteler 
and  gay  tapstere."  In  short,  before  I  was  roused  from  my 
reverie  by  the  less  poetical  but  more  substantial  apparition  of  a 
smoking  beefsteak,  I  had  seen  the  whole  cavalcade  issue  forth 
from  the  hostel-gate,  with  the  brawny,  double-jointed,  red- 
haired  miller,  playing  the  bagpipes  before  them,  and  the 
ancient  host  of  the  Tabard  giving  them  his  farewell  God-send 
to  Canterbury. 

When  I  told  the  Squire  of  the   existence  of  this   legitimate 
descendant   of   the   ancient  Tabard   Inn,  his   eyes   absolutely 


224  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

glistened  with  delight.  He  determined  to  hunt  it  up  the  very 
first  time  he  visited  London,  and  to  eat  a  dinner  there,  and 
drink  a  cup  of  mine  host's  best  wine  in  memory  of  old  Chaucer. 
The  general,  who  happened  to  be  present,  immediately  begged 
to  be  of  the  party  ;  for  he  liked  to  encourage  these  long-estab- 
lished houses,  as  they  are  apt  to  have  choice  old  wines. 


POPULAR  SUPERSTITIONS. 

Farewell  rewards  and  fairies, 

Good  housewives  now  may  say; 
For  now  fowle  sluts  in  dairies 

Do  fare  as  well  as  they ; 
And  though  they  sweepe  their  hearths  no  lease 

Than  maids  were  wont  to  doe, 
Yet  who  of  late  for  cleanlinesse 

Finds  sixpence  in  her  shooe?  —  BISHOP  CORBET. 

I  HAVE  mentioned  the  Squire's  fondness  for  the  marvellous, 
and  his  predilection  for  legends  and  romances.  His  library 
contains  a  curious  collection  of  old  works  of  this  kind,  which 
bear  evident  marks  of  having  been  much  read.  In  his  great 
love  for  all  that  is  antiquated,  he  cherishes  popular  supersti- 
tions, and  listens,  with  very  grave  attention,  to  every  tale, 
however  strange  ;  so  that,  through  his  countenance,  the  house- 
hold, and,  indeed,  the  whole  neighborhood,  is  well  stocked  with 
wonderful  stories  ;  and  if  ever  a  doubt  is  expressed  of  any  one 
of  them,  the  narrator  will  generally  observe,  that  "  the  Squire 
thinks  there's  something  in  it." 

The  Hall  of  course  comes  in  for  its  share,  the  common  people 
having  always  a  propensity  to  furnish  a  great  superannuated 
building  of  the  kind  with  supernatural  inhabitants.  The 
gloomy  galleries  of  such  old  family  mansions;  the  stately 
chambers,  adorned  with  grotesque  carvings  and  faded  paint- 
ings ;  the  sounds  that  vaguely  echo  about  them ;  the  moaning 
of  the  wind  ;  the  cries  of  rooks  and  ravens  from  the  trees  and 
chimney-tops  ;  all  produce  a  state  of  mind  favorable  to  super- 
stitious fancies. 

In  one  chamber  of  the  Hall,  just  opposite  a  door  which  opens 
upon  a  dusky  passage,  there  is  a  full-length  portrait  of  a  war- 
rior in  armor ;  when,  on  suddenly  turning  into  the  passage,  I 
have  caught  a  sight  of  the  portrait,  thrown  into  strong  relief 


POPULAR    SUPERSTITIONS.  225 

by  me  dark  panelling  against  which  it  hangs,  I  have  more 
than  once  been  startled,  as  though  it  were  a  figure  advancing 
towards  me. 

To  superstitious  minds,  therefore,  predisposed  by  the  strange 
and  melancholy  stories  connected  with  family  paintings,  it 
needs  but  little  stretch  of  fancy,  on  a  moonlight  night,  or  by 
the  flickering  light  of  a  candle,  to  set  the  old  pictures  on  the 
walls  in  motion,  sweeping  in  their  robes  and  trains  about  the 
galleries. 

The  Squire  confesses  that  he  used  to  take  a  pleasure  in 
his  younger  days  in  setting  marvellous  stories  afloat,  and 
connecting  them  with  the  lonely  and  peculiar  places  of 
the  neighborhood.  Whenever  he  read  any  legend  of  a  strik- 
ing nature,  he  endeavored  to  transplant  it,  and  give  it  a 
local  habitation  among  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood.  Many 
of  these  stories  took  root,  and  he  says  he  is  often  amused 
with  the  odd  shapes  in  which  they  come  back  to  him  in  some 
old  woman's  narrative,  after  they  have  been  circulating  for 
years  among  the  peasantry,  and  undergoing  rustic  addition* 
and  amendments.  Among  these  may  doubtless  be  numbered 
that  of  the  crusader's  ghost,  which  I  have  mentioned  in  the 
account  of  my  Christmas  visit ;  and  another  about  the  hard- 
riding  Squire  of  yore ;  the  family  Nimrod ;  who  is  sometimes 
heard  in  stormy  winter  nights,  galloping,  with  hound  and  horn, 
over  a  wild  moor  a  few  miles  distant  from  the  Hall.  This  1 
apprehend  to  have  had  its  origin  in  the  famous  story  of  the 
wild  huntsman,  the  favorite  goblin  in  German  tales;  though, 
by  the  by,  as  I  was  talking  on  the  subject  with  Master  Simon 
the  other  evening  in  the  dark  avenue,  he  hinted  that  he  had 
himself  once  or  twice  heard  odd  sounds  at  night,  very  like  a 
pack  of  hounds  in  cry ;  and  that  once,  as  he  was  returning 
rather  late  from  a  hunting  dinner,  he  had  seen  a  strange  figure 
galloping  along  this  same  moor ;  but  as  he  was  riding  rather 
fast  at  the  time,  and  in  a  hurry  to  get  home,  he  did  not  stop  to 
ascertain  what  it  was. 

Popular  superstitions  are  fast  fading  away  hi  England,  owing 
to  the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge,  and  the  bustling  inter- 
course kept  up  throughout  the  country ;  still  they  have  their 
strongholds  and  lingering  places,  and  a  retired  neighborhood 
like  this  is  apt  to  be  one  of  them.  The  parson  tells  me  that 
he  meets  with  many  traditional  beliefs  and  notions  among  the 
common  people,  which  he  has  been  able  to  draw  from  them  in 
the  course  of  familiar  conversation,  though  they  are  rather  shy 
of  avowing  them  to  strangers,  and  particularly  to  "  the  gentry," 


226  BRACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

who  are  apt  to  laugh  at  them.  He  says  there  are  several  of  his 
old  parishioners  who  remember  when  the  village  had  its  bar- 
guest,  or  bar -ghost  —  a  spirit  supposed  to  belong  to  a  town  or 
Ullage,  and  to  predict  any  impending  misfortune  by  midnight 
shrieks  and  wailings.  The  last  time  it  was  heard  was  just 
before  the  death  of  Mr.  Bracebridge's  father,  who  was  much 
beloved  throughout  the  neighborhood;  though  there  are  not 
wanting  some  obstinate  unbelievers,  who  insisted  that  it  was 
nothing  but  the  howling  of  a  watch-dog.  I  have  been  greatly 
delighted,  however,  at  meeting  with  some  traces  of  my  old 
favorite,  Robin  Goodfellow,  though  under  a  different  appella- 
tion from  any  of  those  by  which  I  have  heretofore  heard  him 
called.  The  parson  assures  me  that  many  of  the  peasantry 
believe  in  household  goblins,  called  Dobbies,  which  live  about 
particular  farms  and  houses,  in  the  same  way  that  Robin  Good- 
fellow  did  of  old.  Sometimes  they  haunt  the  barns  and  out- 
houses, and  now  and  then  will  assist  the  farmer  wonderfully, 
by  getting  in  all  his  hay  or  corn  in  a  single  night.  In  general, 
however,  they  prefer  to  live  within  doors,  and  are  fond  of 
keeping  about  the  great  hearths,  and  basking,  at  night,  after 
the  family  have  gone  to  bed,  by  the  glowing  embers.  "When 
put  in  particular  good-humor  by  the  warmth  of  their  lodg- 
ings, and  the  tidiness  of  the  house-maids,  they  will  overcome 
their  natural  laziness,  and  do  a  vast  deal  of  household  work 
before  morning ;  churning  the  cream,  brewing  the  beer,  or 
spinning  all  the  good  dame's  flax.  All  this  is  precisely  the 
conduct  of  Robin  Goodfellow,  described  so  charmingly  by 
Milton: 

"  Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat 
To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
His  shadowy  flail  had  thresb'd  the  corn 
That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end ; 
Then  lays  him  down  the  lubber-fiend, 
And,  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length. 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 
And  crop-full,  out  of  door  he  flings 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings." 

But  beside  these  household  Dobbies,  there  are  others  of  a 
more  gloomy  and  unsocial  nature,  which  keep  about  lonely  barns 
at  a  distance  from  any  dwelling-house,  or  about  ruins  and  old 
bridges.  These  are  full  of  mischievous  and  often  malignant 
tricks,  and  are  fond  of  playing  pranks  upon  benighted  trav- 
ellers. There  is  a  story,  among  the  old  people,  of  one  which 


POPULAR    SUPERSTITIONS.  227 

haunted  a  ruined  mill,  just  by  a  bridge  that  crosses  a  small 
stream  ;  how  that,  late  one  night,  as  a  traveller  was  passing  on 
horseback,  the  goblin  jumped  up  behind  him,  and  grasped  him 
so  close  round  the  body  that  he  had  no  power  to  help  himself, 
but  expected  to  be  squeezed  to  death :  luckily  his  heels  were 
loose,  with  which  he  plied  the  sides  of  his  steed,  and  was 
carried,  with  the  wonderful  instinct  of  a  traveller's  horse, 
straight  to  the  village  inn.  Had  the  inn  been  at  any  greater 
distance,  there  is  no  doubt  but  he  would  have  been  strangled  to 
death ;  as  it  was,  the  good  people  were  a  long  time  in  bringing 
him  to  his  senses,  and  it  was  remarked  that  the  first  sign  he 
showed  of  returning  consciousness  was  to  call  for  a  bottom  of 
brandy. 

These  mischievous  Dobbies  bear  much  resemblance  in  their 
natures  and  habits  to  those  sprites  which  Heywood,  in  his 
Hierarchic,  calls  pugs  or  hobgoblins. 

•« Their  dwellings  be 

In  corners  of  old  houses  least  frequented, 

Or  beneath  stacks  of  wood,  and  these  convented, 

Make  fearfull  noise  in  butteries  and  in  dairies; 

Robin  G-oodfellow  some,  tome  call  them  fairies. 

In  solitarie  rooms  these  uprores  keep, 

And  beate  at  doores,  to  wake  men  from  their  ilepe. 

Seeming  to  force  lockes,  be  they  nere  so  strong, 

And  keeping  Christmasse  gambols  all  night  long. 

Pots,  glasses,  trenchers,  dishes,  pannes  and  kettles, 

They  will  make  dance  about  the  shelves  and  settles, 

As  if  about  the  kitchen  tost  and  cast, 

Yet  in  the  morning  nothing  found  misplac't. 

Others  such  houses  to  their  use  have  fitted, 

In  which  base  murthers  have  been  once  committed. 

Some  have  their  fearful  habitations  taken 

In  desolate  houses,  ruin'd  and  forsaken." 

In  the  account  of  our  unfortunate  hawking  expedition,  I 
mentioned  an  instance  of  one  of  these  sprites,  supposed  to 
haunt  the  ruined  grange  that  stands  in  a  lonely  meadow,  and 
has  a  remarkable  echo.  The  parson  informs  me,  also,  of  a 
belief  once  very  prevalent,  that  a  household  Dobbie  kept  about 
the  old  farm-house  of  the  Tibbets.  It  has  long  been  tra- 
ditional, he  says,  that  one  of  these  good-natured  goblins  is 
attached  to  the  Tibbets  family,  and  came  with  them  when  they 
moved  into  this  part  of  the  country ;  for  it  is  one  of  the  pecu- 
liarities of  these  household  sprites,  that  they  attach  themselves 
to  the  fortunes  of  certain  families,  and  follow  them  in  all  their 
removals. 


228  BEACEBEIDGE   HALL. 

There  is  a  large  old-fashioned  fireplace  in  the  farm-house, 
which  affords  fine  quarters  for  a  chimney-corner  sprite  that 
likes  to  lie  warm ;  especially  as  Ready-Money  Jack  keeps  up 
rousing  fires  in  the  winter  time.  The  old  people  of  the  village 
recollect  many  stories  about  this  goblin,  current  in  their 
young  days.  It  was  thought  to  have  brought  good  luck  to 
the  house,  and  to  be  the  reason  why  the  Tibbetses  were  always 
beforehand  in  the  world,  and  why  their  farm  was  always  in 
better  order,  their  hay  got  in  sooner,  and  their  corn  better 
stacked,  than  that  of  their  neighbors.  The  present  Mrs. 
Tibbets,  at  the  time  of  her  courtship,  had  a  number  of  these 
stories  told  her  by  the  country  gossips ;  and  when  married, 
was  a  little  fearful  about  living  in  a  house  where  such  a  hob- 
goblin was  said  to  haunt:  Jack,  however,  who  has  always 
treated  this  story  with  great  contempt,  assured  her  that  there 
was  no  spirit  kept  about  his  house  that  he  could  not  at  any 
time  lay  in  the  Red  Sea  with  one  flourish  of  his  cudgel.  Still 
his  wife  has  never  got  completely  over  her  notions  on  the  sub- 
ject, but  has  a  horseshoe  nailed  on  the  threshold,  and  keeps  a 
branch  of  rauntry,  or  mountain  ash,  with  its  red  berries,  sus- 
pended from  one  of  the  great  beams  in  the  parlor  —  a  sure  pro- 
tection from  all  evil  spirits. 

These  stories,  as  I  before  observed,  are  fast  fading  away, 
and  in  another  generation  or  two  will  probably  be  completely 
forgotten.  There  is  something,  however,  about  these  rural 
superstitions,  extremely  pleasing  to  the  imagination ;  particu- 
larly those  which  relate  to  the  good-humored  race  of  household 
demons,  and  indeed  to  the  whole  fairy  mythology.  The 
English  have  given  an  inexpressible  charm  to  these  super- 
stitions, by  the  manner  in  which  they  have  associated  them  with 
whatever  is  most  homefelt  and  delightful  in  nature.  I  do  not 
know  a  more  fascinating  race  of  beings  than  these  little  fabled 
people,  who  haunted  the  southern  sides  of  hills  and  mountains, 
lurked  in  flowers  and  about  fountain-heads,  glided  through 
key-holes  into  ancient  halls,  watched  over  farm-houses  and 
dairies,  danced  on  the  green  by  summer  moonlight,  and  on 
the  kitchen-hearth  in  winter.  They  accord  with  the  nature  of 
English  housekeeping  and  English  scenery.  I  always  have 
them  in  mind,  when  I  see  a  fine  old  English  mansion,  with  its 
wide  hall  and  spacious  kitchen ;  or  a  venerable  farm-house,  in 
which  there  is  so  much  fireside  comfort  and  good  housewifery. 
There  was  something  of  national  character  in  their  love  of  order 
and  cleanliness  ;  in  the  vigilance  with  which  they  watched  over 
the  economy  of  the  kitchen,  and  the  functions  of  the  servants ; 


POPULAR    SUPERSTITIONS.  229- 

munificently  rewarding,  with  silver  sixpence  in  shoe,  the  tidy 
housemaid,  but  venting  their  direful  wrath,  in  midnight  bobs 
and  pinches,  upon  the  sluttish  dairymaid.  I  think  I  can  trace 
the  good  effects  of  this  ancient  fairy  sway  over  household 
concerns,  in  the  care  that  prevails  to  the  present  day  among 
English  housemaids,  to  put  their  kitchens  in  order  before  they 
go  to  bed. 

I  have  said  that  these  fairy  superstitions  accord  with  the 
nature  of  English  scenery.  They  suit  these  small  land- 
scapes, which  are  divided  by  honeysuckled  hedges  into  shel- 
tered fields  and  meadows,  where  the  grass  is  mingled  with 
daisies,  buttercups,  and  harebells.  "When  I  first  found  my- 
self among  English  scenery,  I  was  continually  reminded  of 
the  sweet  pastoral  images  which  distinguish  their  fairy  103'- 
thology ;  and  when  for  the  first  time  a  circle  in  the  grass  was 
pointed  out  to  me  as  one  of  the  rings  where  they  were  formerly 
supposed  to  have  held  their  moonlight  revels,  it  seemed  for  a 
moment  as  if  fairy -land  were  no  longer  a  fable.  Brown,  in  his 
Britannia's  Pastorals,  gives  a  picture  of  the  kind  of  scenery 
to  which  I  allude : 

" A  pleasant  mead 

Where  fairies  often  did  their  measures  tread ; 
Which  in  the  meadows  make  such  circles  green, 
As  if  with  garlands  it  had  crowned  been. 
Within  one  of  these  rounds  was  to  be  seen 
A  hillock  rise,  where  oft  the  fairy  queen 
At  twilight  sat." 

And  there  is  another  picture  of  the  same,  in  a  poem  ascribed 
to  Ben  Jonson. 

"  By  wells  and  rills  in  meadows  green, 
We  nightly  dance  our  heyday  guise, 
And  to  our  fairy  king  and  queen 
We  chant  our  moonlight  minstrelsies." 

Indeed,  it  seems  to  me,  that  the  older  British  poets,  with  that 
true  feeling  for  nature  which  distinguishes  them,  have  closely 
adhered  to  the  simple  and  familiar  imagery  which  they  found 
in  these  popular  superstitions ;  and  have  thus  given  to  their 
fairy  mythology  those  continual  allusions  to  the  farm-house 
and  the  dairy,  the  green  meadow  and  the  fountain-head,  which 
fill  our  minds  with  the  delightful  associations  of  rural  life.  It 
is  curious  to  observe  how  the  most  beautiful  fictions  have  their 
origin  among  the  rude  and  ignorant.  There  is  an  indescribable 
charm  about  the  illusions  with  which  chimerical  ignorance  onco 


230  BRACESSIDGE  HALL. 

clothed  every  subject.  These  twilight  views  of  nature  are 
often  more  captivating  than  any  which  are  revealed  by  the 
rays  of  enlightened  philosophy.  The  most  accomplished  and 
poetical  minds,  therefore,  have  been  fain  to  search  back  into 
the  accidental  conceptions  of  what  are  termed  barbarous  ages, 
and  to  draw  from  them  their  finest  imagery  and  machiueiy.  If 
we  look  through  our  most  admired  poets,  we  shall  find  that 
cheir  minds  have  been  impregnated  by  these  popular  fancies, 
and  that  those  have  succeeded  best  who  have  adhered  closest  to 
the  simplicity  of  their  rustic  originals.  Such  is  the  case  with 
Shakspeare  in  his  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  which  so  mi- 
nutely describes  the  employments  and  amusements  of  fairies, 
and  embodies  all  the  notions  concerning  them  which  were  cur- 
rent among  the  vulgar.  It  is  thus  that  poetry  in  England  has 
echoed  back  every  rustic  note,  softened  into  perfect  melody ;  it 
is  thus  that  it  has  spread  its  charms  over  e very-day  life,  dis- 
placing nothing,  taking  things  as  it  found  them,  but  tinting 
them  up  with  its  own  magical  hues,  until  every  green  hill  and 
fountain-head,  every  fresh  meadow,  nay,  every  humble  flower, 
is  full  of  song  and  story. 

I  am  dwelling  too  long,  perhaps,  upon  a  threadbare  subject ; 
yet  it  brings  up  with  it  a  thousand  delicious  recollections  of 
those  happy  days  of  childhood,  when  the  imperfect  knowledge 
I  have  since  obtained  had  not  yet  dawned  upon  my  mind,  and 
when  a  fairy  tale  was  true  history  to  me.  I  have  often  been  so 
transported  by  the  pleasure  of  these  recollections,  as  almost  to 
wish  that  I  had  been  born  in  the  days  when  the  fictions  of  poetry 
were  believed.  Even  now  I  cannot  look  upon  those  fanciful 
creations  of  ignorance  and  credulity,  without  a  lurking  regret 
that  they  have  all  passed  away.  The  experience  of  my  early 
days  tells  me,  they  were  sources  of  exquisite  delight;  and  I 
sometimes  question  whether  the  naturalist  who  can  dissect  the 
\  flowers  of  the  field,  receives  half  the  pleasure  from  contemplating 
.-*"  \them,  that  he  did  who  considered  them  the  abode  of  elves  and 

Dairies.      \  feel  convinced  that  the  true   interests   and   solid 

Bappiness  of  man  are  promoted  by  the  advancement  of  truth ; 
yet  I  cannot  but  mourn  over  the  pleasant  errors  which  it  has 
trampled  down  in  its  progress.  The  fauns  and  sylphs,  the 
household  spi-ite,  the  moonlight  revel,  Oberon,  Queen  Mab,  and 
the  delicious  realms  of  fairy-land,  all  vanish  before  the  light  of 
wBtrdoes  not  sometimes  turn  with  distaste 
morning,  and  seek  to  recall  the  sweet 
night? 


the  delicious  realms  of  fa 
true  philosophy  :  but  who 
V\  from  the  cold  realities  of 
\visions  of  the  night? 


THE  CULPRIT.  231 


THE  CULPRIT. 

From  fire,  from  water,  and  all  things  amiss, 

Deliver  the  house  of  an  honest  justice.  —  Tlu  Widow. 

THE  serenity  of  the  Hall  has  been  suddenly  interrupted  by  a 
very  important  occurrence.  In  the  course  of  this  morning  a 
posse  of  villagers  was  seen  trooping  up  the  avenue,  with  boys 
shouting  in  advance.  As  it  drew  near,  we  perceived  Ready- 
Money  Jack  Tibbets  striding  along,  wielding  his  cudgel  in  one 
hand,  and  with  the  other  grasping  the  collar  of  a  tall  fellow, 
whom,  on  still  nearer  approach,  we  recognized  for  the  redoubt- 
able gypsy  hero,  Starlight  Tom.  He  was  now,  however,  com- 
pletely cowed  and  crestfallen,  and  his  courage  seemed  to  have 
quailed  in  the  iron  gripe  of  the  lion-hearted  Jack. 

The  whole  gang  of  gypsy  women  and  children  came  draggling 
in  the  rear ;  some  in  tears,  others  making  a  violent  clamor 
about  the  ears  of  old  Ready-Money,  who,  however,  trudged  on 
in  silence  with  his  prey,  heeding  their  abuse  as  little  as  a  hawk 
that  has  pounced  upon  a  barn-door  hero  regards  the  outcries 
and  cacklings  of  his  whole  feathered  seraglio. 

He  had  passed  through  the  village  on  his  way  to  the  Hall, 
and  of  course  had  made  a  great  sensation  in  that  most  excita- 
ble place,  where  every  event  is  a  matter  of  gaze  and  gossip. 
The  report  flew  like  wildfire,  that  Starlight  Tom  was  in  custody. 
The  ale-drinkers  forthwith  abandoned  the  tap-room ;  Slingsby's 
school  broke  loose,  and  master  and  boys  swelled  the  tide  that 
came  rolling  at  the  heels  of  old  Ready-Money  and  his  captive. 

The  uproar  increased,  as  they  approached  the  Hall ;  it 
aroused  the  whole  garrison  of  dogs,  and  the  crew  of  hangers-on. 
The  great  mastiff  barked  from  the  dog-house ;  the  stag-hound, 
and  the  greyhound,  and  the  spaniel,  issued  barking  from  the 
hall-door,  and  my  Lady  Liltycraft's  little  dogs  ramped  and 
barked  from  the  parlor  window.  I  remarked,  however,  that 
the  gypsy  dogs  made  no  reply  to  all  these  menaces  and  insults, 
but  crept  close  to  the  gang,  looking  round  with  a  guilty,  poaching 
air,  and  now  and  then  glancing  up  a  dubious  eye  to  their  owners  ; 
which  shows  that  the  moral  dignity,  even  of  dogs,  may  be  ruined 
by  bad  company ! 

When  the  throng  reached  the  front  of  the  house,  they  were 
brought  to  a  halt  by  a  kind  of  advanced  guard,  composed  of 
old  Christy,  the  gamekeeper,  and  two  or  three  servants  of  the 


232  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

house,  who  had  been  brought  out  by  the  noise.  The  common 
herd  of  the  village  fell  back  with  respect ;  the  boys  were  driven 
back  by  Christy  and  his  compeers ;  while  Ready-Money  Jack 
maintained  his  ground  and  his  hold  of  the  prisoner,  and  was 
surrounded  by  the  tailor,  the  schoolmaster,  and  several  other 
dignitaries  of  the  village,  and  by  the  clamorous  brood  of  gypsies, 
who  were  neither  to  be  silenced  nor  intimidated. 

By  this  time  the  whole  household  were  brought  to  .the  doors 
and  windows,  and  the  Squire  to  the  portal.  An  audience  was 
demanded  by  Ready-Money  Jack,  who  had  detected  the  prisoner 
in  the  very  act  of  sheep-stealing  on  his  domains,  and  had  borne 
him  off  to  be  examined  before  the  Squire,  who  is  in  the  com- 
mission of  the  peace. 

A  kind  of  tribunal  was  immediately  held  in  the  servants'  hall, 
a  large  chamber,  with  a  stone  floor,  and  a  long  table  in  the 
centre,  at  one  end  of  which,  just  under  an  enormous  clock,  was 
placed  the  Squire's  chair  of  justice,  while  Master  Simon  took 
his  place  at  the  table  as  clerk  of  the  court.  An  attempt  had 
been  made  by  old  Christy  to  keep  out  the  gypsy  gang,  but  in 
vain,  and  they,  with  the  village  worthies,  and  the  household, 
half  filled  the  hall.  The  old  housekeeper  and  the  butler  were 
in  a  panic  at  this  dangerous  irruption.  They  hurried  away  all 
the  valuable  things  and  portable  articles  that  were  at  hand,  and 
even  kept  a  dragon  watch  on  the  gypsies,  lest  they  should  carry 
off  the  house  clock,  or  the  deal  table. 

Old  Christy,  and  his  faithful  coadjutor  the  gamekeeper,  acted 
as  constables  to  guard  the  prisoner,  triumphing  in  having  at 
last  got  this  terrible  offender  in  their  clutches.  Indeed,  I  am 
inclined  to  think  the  old  man  bore  some  peevish  recollection  of 
having  been  handled  rather  roughly  by  the  gypsy,  in  the  chance- 
medley  affair  of  May-day. 

Silence  was  now  commanded  by  Master  Simon ;  but  it  was 
difficult  to  be  enforced,  in  such  a  motley  assemblage.  There 
was  a  continual  snarling  and  yelping  of  dogs,  and,  as  fast  as  it 
was  quelled  in  one  corner,  it  broke  out  in  another.  The  poor 
gypsy  curs,  who,  like  errant  thieves,  could  not  hold  up  their 
heads  in  an  honest  house,  were  worried  and  insulted  by  the 
gentlemen  dogs  of  the  establishment,  without  offering  to  make 
resistance ;  the  very  curs  of  my  Lady  Lillycraft  bullied  them 
with  impunity. 

The  examination  was  conducted  with  great  mildness  and  in- 
dulgence by  the  Squire,  partly  from  the  kindness  of  his  nature, 
and  partly,  I  suspect,  because  his  heart  yearned  towards  the 
culprit,  who  had  found  great  favor  in  his  eyes,  as  I  have  already 


THE  CULPRIT.  233 

observed,  from  the  skill  he  had  at  various  times  displayed  in 
archery,  morris-dancing,  and  other  obsolete  accomplishments. 
Proofs,  however,  were  too  strong.  Ready-Money  Jack  told  his 
story  in  a  straightforward,  independent  way,  nothing  daunted 
by  the  presence  in  which  he  found  himself.  He  had  suffered 
from  various  depredations  on  his  sheepfold  and  poultrj'-yard, 
and  had  at  length  kept  watch,  and  caught  the  delinquent  in  the 
very  act  of  making  off  with  a  sheep  on  his  shoulders. 

Tibbets  was  repeatedly  interrupted,  in  the  course  of  his  tes- 
timony, by  the  culprit's  mother,  a  furious  old  beldame,  with  an 
insufferable  tongue,  and  who,  in  fact,  was  several  times  kept, 
with  some  difficulty,  from  flying  at  him  tooth  and  nail.  The 
wife,  too,  of  the  prisoner,  whom  I  am  told  he  does  not  beat 
above  half-a-dozen  times  a  week,  completely  interested  Lady 
Lillycraft  in  her  husband's  behalf,  by  her  tears  and  supplica- 
tions ;  and  several  of  the  other  gypsy  women  were  awakening 
strong  sympathy  among  the  young  girls  and  maid-servants  in 
the  back-ground.  The  pretty,  black-eyed  g}'psy  girl  whom  I 
have  mentioned  on  a  former  occasion  as  the  sibyl  that  read  the 
fortunes  of  the  general,  endeavored  to  wheedle  that  doughty 
warrior  into  their  interests,  and  even  made  some  approaches  to 
her  old  acquaintance,  Master  Simon ;  but  was  repelled  by  the 
latter  with  all  the  dignity  of  office,  having  assumed  a  look  of 
gravity  and  importance  suitable  to  the  occasion. 

I  was  a  little  surprised,  at  first,  to  find  honest  Slingsby,  the 
schoolmaster,  rather  opposed  to  his  old  crony  Tibbets,  and 
coming  forward  as  a  kind  of  advocate  for  the  accused.  It 
seems  that  he  had  taken  compassion  on  the  forlorn  fortunes  of 
Starlight  Tom,  and  had  been  trying  his  eloquence  in  his  favor 
the  whole  way  from  the  village,  but  without  effect.  During  the 
examination  of  Ready-Money  Jack,  Slingsby  had  stood  like 
"  dejected  Pity  at  his  side,"  seeking  every  now  and  then,  by  a 
soft  word,  to  soothe  any  exacerbation  of  his  ire,  or  to  qualify 
any  harsh  expression.  He  now  ventured  to  make  a  few  obser- 
vations to  the  Squire,  in  palliation  of  the  delinquent's  offence  ; 
but  poor  Slingsby  spoke  more  from  the  heart  than  the  head, 
and  was  evidently  actuated  merely  by  a  general  sympathy  for 
every  poor  devil  in  trouble,  and  a  liberal  toleration  for  all  kinds 
of  vagabond  existence. 

The  ladies,  too,  large  and  small,  with  the  kind-heartedness 
of  the  sex,  were  zealous  on  the  side  of  mercy,  and  interceded 
strenuously  with  the  Squire ;  insomuch  that  the  prisoner,  find- 
ing himself  unexpectedly  surrounded  by  active  friends,  once 
more  reared  his  crest,  and  seemed  disposed,  for  a  time,  to  put 


234  BRACEBEIDGE   HALL. 

on  the  air  of  injured  innocence.  The  Squire,  however,  with  all 
his  benevolence  of  heart,  and  his  lurking  weakness  towards  the 
prisoner,  was  too  conscientious  to  swerve  from  the  strict  path 
of  justice.  Abundant  concurring  testimony  made  the  proof  of 
guilt  incontrovertible,  and  Starlight  Tom's  mittimus  was  made 
out  accordingly. 

The  sympathy  of  the  ladies  was  now  greater  than  ever; 
they  even  made  some  attempts  to  mollify  the  ire  of  Ready- 
Money  Jack;  but  that  sturdy  potentate  had  been  too  much 
incensed  by  the  repeated  Incursions  into  his  territories  by 
the  predatory  band  of  Starlight  Tom,  and  he  was  resolved, 
he  said,  to  drive  the  "  varmint  reptiles "  out  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. To  avoid  all  further  importunities,  as  soon  as  the 
mittimus  was  made  out,  he  girded  up  his  loins,  and  strode  back 
to  his  seat  of  empire,  accompanied  by  his  interceding  friend, 
Slingsby,  and  followed  by  a  detachment  of  the  gypsy  gang, 
who  hung  on  his  rear,  assailing  him  with  mingled  prayers  and 
execrations. 

The  question  now  was,  how  to  dispose  of  the  prisoner  —  a 
matter  of  great  moment  in  this  peaceful  establishment,  where 
so  formidable  a  character  as  Starlight  Tom  was  like  a  hawk  en- 
trapped in  a  dove-cote.  As  the  hubbub  and  examination  had 
occupied  a  considerable  time,  it  was  too  late  in  the  day  to  send 
him  to  the  county  prison,  and  that  of  the  village  was  sadly  out 
of  repair,  from  long  want  of  occupation.  Old  Christy,  who 
took  great  interest  in  the  affair,  proposed  that  the  culprit  should 
be  committed  for  the  night  to  an  upper  loft  of  a  kind  of  tower 
in  one  of  the  out-houses,  where  he  and  the  gamekeeper  would 
mount  guard.  After  much  deliberation,  this  measure  was 
adopted  ;  the  premises  in  question  were  examined  and  made 
secure,  and  Christy  and  his  trusty  ally,  the  one  armed  with  a 
fowling-piece,  the  other  with  an  ancient  blunderbuss,  turned 
out  as  sentries  to  keep  watch  over  this  donjon-keep. 

Such  is  the  momentous  affair  that  has  just  taken  place,  and 
it  is  an  event  of  too  great  moment  in  this  quiet  little  world,  not 
to  turn  it  completely  topsy-turvy.  Labor  is  at  a  stand :  the 
house  has  been  a  scene  of  confusion  the  whole  evening.  It  has 
been  beleaguered  by  gypsy  women,  with  their  children  on  their 
backs,  wailing  and  lamenting  ;  while  the  old  virago  of  a  mother 
has  cruised  up  and  down  the  lawn  in  front,  shaking  her  head, 
and  muttering  to  herself,  or  now  and  then  breaking  into  a 
paroxysm  of  rage,  brandishing  her  fist  at  the  Hall,  and  de- 
nouncing ill-luck  upon  Ready-Money  Jack,  and  even  upon  the 
Squire  himself. 


THE    CULPEIT.  235 

Lady  Lillycraft  has  given  repeated  audiences  to  the  culprit's 
weeping  wife,  at  the  Hall  door;  and  the  servant  maids  have 
stolen  out,  to  confer  with  the  gypsy  women  under  the  trees. 
As  to  the  little  ladies  of  the  family,  they  are  all  outrageous  at 
Ready-Money  Jack,  whom  they  look  upon  in  the  light  of  a  ty- 
rannical giant  of  fairy  tale.  Phoebe  Wilkins,  contrary  to  her 
usual  nature,  is  the  only  one  pitiless  in  the  affair.  She  thinks 
Mr.  Tibbets  quite  in  the  right ;  and  thinks  the  gypsies  deserve 
to  be  punished  severely,  for  meddling  with  the  sheep  of  the 
Tibbetses. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  females  of  the  family  evinced  all  the 
provident  kindness  of  the  sex,  ever  ready  to  soothe  aud  succor 
the  distressed,  right  or  wrong.  Lady  Lillycraft  has  had  a 
mattress  taken  to  the  out-house,  and  comforts  and  delicacies  of 
all  kinds  have  been  taken  to  the  prisoner ;  even  the  little  girls 
have  sent  their  cakes  and  sweetmeats ;  so  that,  I'll  warrant, 
the  vagabond  has  never  fared  so  well  in  his  life  before.  Old 
Christy,  it  is  true,  looks  upon  every  thing  with  a  war}'  eye ; 
struts  about  with  his  blunderbuss  with  the  air  of  a  veteran  cam- 
paigner, and  will  hardly  allow  himself  to  be  spoken  to.  The 
gypsy  women  dare  not  come  within  gunshot,  and  every  tatter- 
demalion of  a  boy  has  been  frightened  from  the  park.  The  old 
fellow  is  determined  to  lodge  Starlight  Tom  in  prison  with  his 
own  hands ;  and  hopes,  he  says,  to  see  one  of  the  poaching 
crew  made  an  example  of. 

I  doubt,  after  all,  whether  the  worthy  Squire  is  not  the  great- 
ost  sufferer  in  the  whole  affair.  His  honorable  sense  of  duty 
obliges  him  to  be  rigid,  but  the  overflowing  kindness  of  his 
nature  makes  this  a  grievous  trial  to  him. 

He  is  not  accustomed  to  have  such  demands  upon  his  justice, 
in  his  truly  patriarchal  domain  ;  and  it  wounds  his  benevolent 
spirit,  that  while  prosperity  and  happiness  are  flowing  in  thus 
bounteously  upon  him,  he  should  have  to  inflict  misery  upon  a 
fellow-being. 

He  has  been  troubled  and  cast  down  the  whole  evening ;  took 
leave  of  the  family,  on  going  to  bed,  with  a  sigh,  instead  of  his 
usual  heart}-  and  affectionate  tone  ;  and  will,  in  all  probability, 
have  a  far  more  sleepless  night  than  his  prisoner.  Indeed,  this 
unlucky  affair  has  cast  a  damp  upon  the  whole  household,  as 
there  appears  to  be  an  universal  opinion  that  the  unlucky  cul- 
prit will  come  to  the  gallows. 

Morning.  —  The  clouds  of  last  evening  are  all  blown  over. 
A  load  has  been  taken  from  the  Squire's  heart,  and  every  face 
is  once  more  in  smiles.  The  gamekeeper  made  his  appearance 


236  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

at  an  early  hour,  completely  shamefaced  and  crestfallen.  Star- 
light Tom  had  made  his  escape  in  the  night ;  how  he  had  got 
out  of  the  loft,  no  one  could  tell :  the  Devil,  they  think,  must 
have  assisted  him.  Old  Christy  was  so  mortified  that  he  would 
not  show  his  face,  but  had  shut  himself  up  in  his  stronghold  at 
the  dog-kennel,  and  would  not  be  spoken  with.  What  has  par- 
ticularly relieved  the  Squire,  is,  that  there  is  very  little  likeli- 
hood of  the  culprit's  being  retaken,  having  gone  off  on  one  of 
the  old  gentleman's  best  hunters. 


FAMILY   MISFORTUNES. 

The  night  has  been  unruly;  where  we  lay, 
The  chimneys  were  blown  down.  —  Macbeth. 

WE  have  for  a  day  or  two  past  had  a  flaw  of  unruly  weather, 
which  has  intruded  itself  iuto  this  fair  and  flowery  month,  and 
for  a  time  quite  marred  the  beauty  of  the  landscape.  Last 
night,  the  storm  attained  its  crisis ;  the  rain  beat  in  torrents 
against  the  casements,  and  the  wind  piped  and  blustered  about 
the  old  Hall  with  quite  a  wintry  vehemence.  The  morning, 
however,  dawned  clear  and  serene;  the  face  of  the  heavena 
seemed  as  if  newly  washed,  and  the  sun  shone  with  a  brightness 
undimmed  by  a  single  vapor.  Nothing  overhead  gave  tracea 
of  the  recent  storm;  but  on  looking  from  my  window,  I  be- 
held sad  ravage  among  the  shrubs  and  flowers;  the  garden- 
walks  had  formed  the  channels  for  little  torrents;  trees  were 
lopped  of  their  branches ;  and  a  small  silver  stream  which  wound 
through  the  park,  and  ran  at  the  bottom  of  the  lawn,  had 
swelled  into  a  turbid  yellow  sheet  of  water. 

In  an  establishment  like  this,  where  the  mansion  is  vast( 
ancient,  and  somewhat  afflicted  with  the  infirmities  of  age,  and 
where  there  are  numerous  and  extensive  dependencies,  a  storm 
is  an  event  of  a  very  grave  nature,  and  brings  in  its  train  a 
multiplicity  of  cares  and  disasters. 

While  the  Squire  was  taking  his  breakfast  in  the  great  hall, 
he  was  continually  interrupted  by  bearers  of  ill-tidings  from 
some  part  or  other  of  his  domains ;  he  appeared  to  me  like 
the  commander  of  a  besieged  city,  after  some  grand  assault, 
receiving  at  his  headquarters  reports  of  damages  sustained  in 
the  various  quarters  of  the  place.  At  one  time  the  housekeepei 
brought  him  intelligence  of  a  chimney  blown  down,  and  a  dea 


FAMILY  MISFORTUNES.  237 

Derate  leak  sprung  in  the  roof  over  the  picture  gallery,  which 
threatened  to  obliterate  a  whole  generation  of  his  ancestors. 
Then  the  steward  came  in  with  a  doleful  story  of  the  mischief 
done  in  the  woodlands  ;  while  the  gamekeeper  bemoaned  the 
loss  of  one  of  his  finest  bucks,  whose  bloated  carcass  was  seen 
floating  along  the  swollen  current  of  the  river. 

When  the  Squire  issued  forth,  he  was  accosted,  before  the 
door,  by  the  old,  paralytic  gardener,  with  a  face  full  of  trouble, 
reporting,  as  I  supposed,  the  devastation  of  his  flower-beds,  and 
the  destruction  of  his  wall-fruit.  I  remarked,  however,  that 
his  intelligence  caused  a  peculiar  expression  of  concern,  not 
only  with  the  Squire  and  Master  Simon,  but  with  the  fair  Julia 
and  Lady  Lillycraft,  who  happened  to  be  present.  From  a 
few  words  which  reached  my  ear,  I  found  there  was  some  tale 
of  domestic  calamity  in  the  case,  and  that  some  unfortunate 
family  had  been  rendered  houseless  by  the  storm.  Many  ejacu- 
lations of  pity  broke  from  the  ladies ;  I  heard  the  expressions 
of  "poor,  helpless  beings,"  and  "unfortunate  little  creatures," 
several  times  repeated ;  to  which  the  old  gardener  replied  by 
very  melancholy  shakes  of  the  head. 

I  felt  so  interested,  that  I  could  not  help  calling  to  the  gar- 
dener, as  he  was  retiring,  and  asking  what  unfortunate  family 
it  was  that  had  suffered  so  severely  ?  The  old  man  touched  his 
hat,  and  gazed  at  me  for  an  instant,  as  if  hardly  comprehending 
my  question.  "  Family  !  "  replied  he,  "  there  be  no  family  in 
the  case,  your  honor ;  but  here  have  been  sad  mischief  done  in 
the  rookery !  " 

I  had  noticed,  the  day  before,  that  the  high  and  gusty  winds 
had  occasioned  great  disquiet  among  these  airy  householders ; 
their  nests  being  all  filled  with  young,  who  were  in  danger 
of  being  tilted  out  of  then:  tree-rocked  cradles.  Indeed,  the 
old  birds  themselves  seemed  to  have  hard  work  to  maintain 
a  foothold ;  some  kept  hovering  and  cawing  in  the  air ;  or,  if 
they  ventured  to  alight,  had  to  hold  fast,  flap  their  wings,  and 
spread  their  tails,  and  thus  remain  see-sawing  on  the  topmost 


In  the  course  of  the  night,  however,  an  awful  calamity  had 
taken  place  in  this  most  sage  and  politic  community.  There 
was  a  great  tree,  the  tallest  in  the  grove,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  a  kind  of  court-end  of  the  metropolis,  and  crowded  with 
the  residences  of  those  whom  Master  Simon  considers  the  nobil- 
ity and  gentry.  A  decayed  limb  of  this  tree  had  given  way 
with  the  violence  of  the  storm,  and  came  down  with  all  its  air- 
castles. 


238  SEACEBEIDGE   HALL. 

One  should  be  well  aware  of  the  humors  of  the  good  Squire 
and  his  household,  to  understand  the  general  concern  expressed 
at  this  disaster.  It  was  quite  a  public  calamity  in  this  rural 
empire,  and  all  seemed  to  feel  for  the  poor  rooks  as  for  fellow- 
citizens  in  distress. 

The  ground  had  been  strewed  with  the  callow  young,  which 
were  now  cherished  in  the  aprons  and  bosoms  of  the  maid- 
servants, and  the  little  ladies  of  the  family.  I  was  pleased  with 
this  touch  of  nature ;  this  feminine  sympathy  in  the  sufferings 
of  the  offspring,  and  the  maternal  anxiety  of  the  parent  birds. 

It  was  interesting,  too,  to  witness  the  general  agitation 
and  distress  prevalent  throughout  the  feathered  community ;  the 
common  cause  that  was  made  of  it ;  and  the  incessant  hover- 
ing, and  fluttering,  and  lamenting,  in  the  whole  rookery. 
There  is  a  cord  of  sympathy,  that  runs  through  the  whole 
feathered  race,  as  to  any  misfortunes  of  the  young;  and 
the  cries  of  a  wounded  bird  in  the  breeding  season  will 
throw  a  whole  grove  in  a  flutter  and  an  alarm.  Indeed, 
why  should  I  confine  it  to  the  feathered  tribe?  Nature  has 
implanted  an  exquisite  sympathy  on  this  subject,  which  ex- 
tends through  all  her  works.  It  is  an  invariable  attribute 
of  the  female  heart,  to  melt  at  the  cry  of  early  helpless- 
ness, and  to  take  an  instinctive  interest  in  the  distresses  of 
the  parent  and  its  young.  On  the  present  occasion,  the  ladies 
of  the  family  were  full  of  pity  and  commiseration  ;  and  I  shall 
never  forget  the  look  that  Lady  Lilly  craft  gave  the  general,  on 
his  observing  that  the  young  birds  would  make  an  excellent 
curry,  or  an  especial  good  rook-pie. 


LOVERS'  TROUBLES. 

The  poor  soul  sat  singing  by  a  sycamore  tree, 

Sing  all  a  green  willow; 
Her  hand  on  her  bosom,  her  head  on  her  knee 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow ; 
Sing  all  a  green  willow  must  be  my  garland.  —  Old  Song. 

THE  fair  Julia  having  nearly  recovered  from  the  effects  of  her 
hawking  disaster,  it  begins  to  be  thought  high  time  to  appoint 
a  day  for  the  wedding.  As  every  domestic  event  in  a  venerable 
and  aristocratic  family  connection  like  this  is  a  matter  of 
moment,  the  fixing  upon  this  important  day  has  of  course  given 
rise  to  much  conference  and  debate. 


LOVERS'     TROUBLES.  239 

Some  slight  difficulties  and  demurs  have  lately  sprung  up, 
originating  in  the  peculiar  humors  prevalent  at  the  Hall. 
Thus,  I  have  overheard  a  very  solemn  consultation  between 
Lady  Lillycraft,  the  parson,  and  Master  Simon,  as  to  whethe: 
the  marriage  ought  not  to  be  postponed  until  the  cominr 
month. 

With  all  the  charms  of  the  fli  /wery  month  of  May,  there  is, 
I  find,  an  ancient  prejudice  against  it  as  a  marrying  month. 
An  old  proverb  says,  "To  wed  in  May  is  to  wed  poverty." 
Now,  as  Lady  Lillycraft  is  very  much  given  to  believe  in  lucky 
and  unlucky  times  and  seasons,  and  indeed  is  very  supersti- 
tious on  all  points  relating  to  the  tender  passion,  this  old  prov- 
erb has  taken  great  hold  upon  her  mind.  She  recollects  two 
or  three  instances,  in  her  own  knowledge,  of  matches  that  took 
place  in  this  month,  and  proved  very  unfortunate.  Indeed,  an 
•wn  cousin  of  hers,  who  married  on  a  May-day,  lost  her  hus- 
jaud  by  a  fall  from  his  horse,  after  they  had  lived  happily 
together  for  twenty  years. 

The  parson  appeared  to  give  great  weight  to  her  ladyship's: 
objections,  and  acknowledged  the  existence  of  a  prejudice  of 
the  kind,  not  merely  confined  to  modern  times,  but  prevalent 
likewise  among  the  ancients.  In  confirmation  of  this,  he 
quoted  a  passage  from  Ovid,  which  had  a  great  effect  on  Lady 
Lillycraft,  being  given  in  a  language  which  she  did  not  under- 
stand. Even  Master  Simon  was  staggered  by  it ;  for  he  listened 
with  a  puzzled  air ;  and  then,  shaking  his  head,  sagaciously 
observed,  that  Ovid  was  certainly  a  very  wise  man. 

From  this  sage  conference  I  likewise  gathered  several  other 
important  pieces  of  information,  relative  to  weddings  ;  such  as 
that,  if  two  were  celebrated  in  the  same  church,  on  the  same 
day,  the  first  would  be  happy,  the  second  unfortunate.  If,  on 
going  to  church,  the  bridal  party  should  meet  the  funeral  of  a 
female,  it  was  an  omen  that  the  bride  would  die  first ;  if  of  a 
male,  the  bridegroom.  If  the  newly-married  couple  were  to 
dance  together  on  their  wedding-day,  the  wife  would  thence- 
forth rule  the  roast ;  with  many  other  curious  and  unquestion- 
able facts  of  the  same  nature,  all  which  made  me  ponder  more 
than  ever  upon  the  perils  which  surround  this  happy  state,  and 
the  thoughtless  ignorance  of  mortals  as  to  the  awful  risks  they 
run  in  venturing  upon  it.  I  abstain,  however,  from  enlarging 
upon  this  topic,  having  no  inclination  to  promote  the  increase 
of  bachelors. 

Notwithstanding  the  due  weight  which  the  Squire  gives  to 
traditional  saws  and  ancient  opinions,  I  am  happy  to  find 


240  BEACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

that  he  makes  a  firm  stand  for  the  credit  of  this  loving  month, 
and  brings  to  his  aid  a  whole  legion  of  poetical  authorities ;  all 
which,  I  presume,  have  been  conclusive  with  the  young  couple, 
as  I  understand  they  are  perfectly  willing  to  marry  in  May, 
and  abide  the  consequences.  In  a  few  days,  therefore,  the 
wedding  is  to  take  place,  and  the  Hall  is  in  a  buzz  of  anticipa- 
tion. The  housekeeper  is  bustling  about  from  morning  till 
night,  with  a  look  full  of  business  and  importance,  having  a 
thousand  arrangements  to  make,  the  Squire  intending  to  keep 
open  house  on  the  occasion ;  and  as  to  the  house-maids,  you 
cannot  look  one  of  them  in  the  face,  but  the  rogue  begins  to 
color  up  and  simper. 

While,  however,  this  leading  love  affair  is  going  on  with  a 
tranquillity  quite  inconsistent  with  the  rules  of  romance,  I  can- 
not say  that  the  under-plots  are  equally  propitious.  The 
"opening  bud  of  love"  between  the  general  and  Lady  Lilly- 
craft  seems  to  have  experienced  some  blight  in  the  course  of 
this  genial  season.  I  do  not  think  the  general  has  ever  been 
able  to  retrieve  the  ground  he  lost,  when  he  fell  asleep  during 
the  captain's  story.  Indeed,  Master  Simon  thinks  his  case  is 
completely  desperate, -her  ladyship  having  determined  that  he 
is  quite  destitute  of  sentiment. 

The  season  has  been  equally  unpropitious  to  the  lovelorn 
Phoebe  Wilkins.  I  fear  the  reader  will  be  impatient  at  having 
this  humble  amour  so  often  alluded  to  ;  but  I  confess  I  am  apt 
to  take  a  great  interest  in  the  love  troubles  of  simple  girls  of 
this  class.  Few  people  have  an  idea  of  the  world  of  care  and 
perplexity  these  poor  damsels  have,  in  managiug  the  affairs  of 
the  heart. 

We  talk  and  write  about  the  tender  passion ;  we  give  it  all 
the  colorings  of  sentiment  and  romance,  and  lay  the  scene  of 
its  influence  in  high  life ;  but,  after  all,  I  doubt  whether  its 
sway  is  ncjfc  more  absolute  among  females  of  an  humbler  sphere. 
How  often,  could, we  but  look  into  the  heart,  should  we  find 
the  sentiment  throbbing  in  all  its  violence  in  the  bosom  of  the 
poor  lady's-maid,  rather  than  in  that  of  the  brilliant  beauty  she 
is  decking  out  for  conquest ;  whose  brain  is  probably  bewildered 
with  beaux,  ball-rooms,  and  wax-light  chandeliers. 

With  these  humble  beings,  love  is  an  honest,  engrossing  con- 
cern. They  have  no  ideas  of  settlements,  establishments,  equi- 
pages, and  pin-money.  The  heart  —  the  heart,  is  all-in-all  with 
them,  poor  things !  There  is  seldom  one  of  them  but  has  her 
love  cares,  and  love  secrets  ;  her  doubts,  and  hopes,  and  fears, 
equal  to  those  of  any  heroine  of  romance,  and  ten  times  as 


LOVERS*    TROUBLES.  241 

sincere.  And  then,  too,  there  is  her  secret  hoard  of  love  docu- 
ments ; —  the  broken  sixpence,  the  gilded  brooch,  the  lock  of 
hair,  the  unintelligible  love  scrawl,  all  treasured  up  in  her  box 
of  Sunday  finery,  for  private  contemplation. 

How  many  crosses  and  trials  is  she  exposed  to  from  some 
lynx-eyed  dame,  or  staid  old  vestal  of  a  mistress,  who  keeps 
a  dragon  watch  over  her  virtue,  and  scouts  the  lover  from 
the  door!  But  then,  how  sweet  are  the  little  love  scenes, 
snatched  at  distant  intervals  of  holiday,  and  fondly  dwelt  on 
through  many  a  long  day  of  household  labor  and  confinement ! 
If  in  the  country,  it  is  the  dance  at  the  fair  or  wake,  the  inter- 
view in  the  church-yard  after  service,  or  the  evening  stroll  in 
the  green  lane.  If  in  town,  it  is  perhaps  merely  a  stolen 
moment  of  delicious  talk  between  the  bars  of  the  area,  fearful 
every  instant  of  being  seen ;  and  then,  how  lightly  will  the 
simple  creature  carol  all  day  afterwards  at  her  labor ! 

Poor  baggage  !  after  all  her  crosses  and  difficulties,  when  she 
marries,  what  is  it  but  to  exchange  a  life  of  comparative  ease 
and  comfort,  for  one  of  toil  and  uncertainty?  Perhaps,  too, 
the  lover  for  whom  in  the  fondness  of  her  nature  she  has  com- 
mitted herself  to  fortune's  freaks,  turns  out  a  worthless  churl, 
the  dissolute,  hard-hearted  husband  of  low  life  ;  who,  taking  to 
the  ale-house,  leaves  her  to  a  cheerless  home,  to  labor,  penury, 
and  child-bearing. 

When  I  see  poor  Phoebe  going  about  with  drooping  eye,  and 
her  head  hanging  "all  o'  one  side,"  I  cannot  help  calling  to 
mind  the  pathetic  little  picture  drawn  by  Desdemona :  — 

My  mother  hod  a  maid,  called  Barbara; 
She  was  in  love ;  and  he  she  loved  proved  mad, 
And  did  forsake  her ;  she  had  a  song  of  willow, 
An  old  thing  'twas;  but  it  express'd  her  fortune, 
And  she  died  singing  it. 

I  hope,  however,  that  a  better  lot  is  in  reserve  for  Phoebe 
Wilkins,  and  that  she  may  yet  "  rule  the  roast,"  in  the  ancient 
empire  of  the  Tibbetses  !  She  is  not  fit  to  battle  with  hard  hearts 
or  hard  times.  She  was,  I  am  told,  the  pet  of  her  poor  mother, 
who  was  proud  of  the  beauty  of  her  child,  and  brought  her  up 
more  tenderly  than  a  village  girl  ought  to  be ;  and  ever  since 
she  has  been  left  an  orphan,  the  good  ladies  of  the  Hall  have 
completed  the  softening  and  spoiling  of  her. 

I  have  recently  observed  her  holding  long  conferences  in  the 
church-yard,  and  up  and  down  one  of  the  lanes  near  the  village, 
with  Slingsby,  the  schoolmaster.  I  at  first  thought  the  peda 


242  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

gogue  might  be  touched  with  the  tender  malady  so  prevalent  in 
these  parts  of  late  ;  but  I  did  him  injustice.  Honest  Slingsby, 
it  seems,  was  a  friend  and  crony  of  her  late  father,  the  parish 
clerk ;  and  is  on  intimate  terms  with  the  Tibbets  family. 
Prompted,  therefore,  by  his  good-will  towards  all  parties,  and 
secretly  instigated,  perhaps,  by  the  managing  dame  Tibbets,  he 
has  undertaken  to  talk  with  Phoebe  upon  the  subject.  He  gives 
her,  however,  but  little  encouragement.  Slingsby  has  a  for- 
midable opinion  of  the  aristocratical  feeling  of  old  Ready- 
Money,  and  thinks,  if  Phoebe  were  even  to  make  the  matter  up 
with  the  son,  she  would  find  the  father  totally  hostile  to  the 
match.  The  poor  damsel,  therefore,  is  reduced  almost  to  de- 
spair ;  and  Slingsby,  who  is  too  good-natured  not  to  sympathize 
in  her  distress,  has  advised  her  to  give  up  all  thoughts  of  young 
Jack,  and  has  proposed  as  a  substitute  his  learned  coadjutor, 
the  prodigal  son.  He  has  even,  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart, 
offered  to  give  up  the  school-house  to  them ;  though  it  would 
leave  him  once  more  adrift  in  the  wide  world. 


THE    HISTORIAN. 

Bermione.  Pray  you  sit  by  us, 

And  tell'H  a  tale. 

Mamiliua.          Merry  or  sad  shall't  be  ? 

Hermione.    As  merry  as  you  will. 

Mamilius.  A  sad  tale's  best  for  winter. 

I  have  one  of  sprites  and  goblins. 

Ilermione.  Let's  have  that,  sir. 

—  Winter's  Tale. 

As  this  is  a  story-telling  age,  I  have  been  tempted  occasion- 
ally to  give  the  reader  one  of  the  many  tales  that  are  served 
up  with  supper  at  the  Hall.  I  might,  indeed,  have  furnished  a 
series  almost  equal  in  number  to  the  Arabian  Nights  ;  but  some 
were  rather  hackneyed  and  tedious  ;  others  I  did  not  feel  war- 
ranted in  betraying  into  print ;  and  many  more  were  of  the  old 
general's  relating,  and  turned  principally  upon  tiger-hunting, 
elephant-riding,  and  Seringapatam  ;  enlivened  by  the  wonderful 
deeds  of  Tippoo  Saib,  and  the  excellent  jokes  of  Major  Pen- 
dergast. 

I  had  all  along  maintained  a  quiet  post  at  a  corner  of  the 
table,  where  I  had  been  able  to  indulge  my  humor  undisturbed : 
listening  attentively  when  the  story  was  very  good,  and  dozing 


THE  HISTORIAN.  2*3 

a  little  when  it  was  rather  dull,  which  I  consider  the  perfection 
of  auditorship. 

I  was  roused  the  other  evening  from  a  slight  trance  into 
which  I  had  fallen  during  one  of  the  general's  histories,  by  a 
sudden  call  from  the  Squire  to  furnish  some  entertainment  of 
the  kind  in  my  turn.  Having  been  so  profound  a  listener 
to  others,  I  could  not  in  conscience  refuse ;  but  neither  my 
memory  nor  invention  being  ready  to  answer  so  unexpected  a 
demand,  I  begged  leave  to  read  a  manuscript  tale  from  the  pen 
of  my  fellow-countryman,  the  late  Mr.  Diedrich  Knickerbocker, 
the  historian  of  New  York.  As  this  ancient  chronicler  may 
not  be  better  known  to  my  readers  than  he  was  to  the  company 
at  the  Hall,  a  word  or  two  concerning  him  may  not  be  amiss, 
before  proceeding  to  his  manuscript. 

Diedrich  Knickerbocker  was  a  native  of  New  York,  a  descend- 
ant from  one  of  the  ancient  Dutch  families  which  originally 
settled  that  province,  and  remained  there  after  it  was  taken 
possession  of  by  the  English  in  1664.  The  descendants  of 
these  Dutch  families  still  remain  in  villages  and  neighborhoods 
in  various  parts  of  the  country,  retaining  with  singular  obsti- 
nacy, the  dresses,  manners,  and  even  language  of  their  ances- 
tors, and  forming  a  very  distinct  and  curious  feature  in  the 
motley  population  of  the  State.  In  a  hamlet  whose  spire  may 
be  seen  from  New  York,  rising  from  above  the  brow  of  a  hill 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Hudson,  many  of  the  old  folks, 
even  at  the  present  day,  speak  English  with  an  accent,  and  the 
Dominie  preaches  in  Dutch  ;  and  so  completely  is  the  hereditary 
love  of  quiet  and  silence  maintained,  that  in  one  of  these 
drowsy  villages,  in  the  middle  of  a  warm  summer's  day,  the 
buzzing  of  a  stout  blue-bottle  fly  will  resound  from  one  end  of 
the  place  to  the  other. 

With  the  laudable  hereditary  feeling  thus  kept  up  among 
these  worthy  people,  did  Mr.  Knickerbocker  undertake  to  write 
a  history  of  his  native  city,  comprising  the  reign  of  its  three 
Dutch  governors  during  the  time  that  it  was  yet  under  the  dom- 
ination of  the  Hogenmogens  of  Holland.  In  the  execution  of 
this  design,  the  little  Dutchman  has  displayed  great  historical 
research,  and  a  wonderful  consciousness  of  the  dignity  of  his 
subject.  His  work,  however,  has  been  so  little  understood,  as 
to  be  pronounced  a  mere  work  of  humor,  satirizing  the  follies 
of  the  times,  both  in  politics  and  morals,  and  giving  whimsical 
views  of  human  nature. 

Be  this  as  it  may  :  —  among  the  papers  left  behind  him  were 
several  tales  of  a  lighter  nature,  apparently  thrown  togethe? 


244  BRACES  RIDGE   HALL. 

from  materials  gathered  during  his  profound  researches  for 
his  history,  and  which  he  seems  to  have  cast  by  with  neglect, 
as  unworthy  of  publication.  Some  of  these  have  fallen  into 
my  hands,  by  an  accident  which  it  is  needless  at  present  to 
mention;  and  one  of  these  very  stories,  with  its  prelude  in 
the  words  of  Mr.  Knickerbocker,  I  undertook  to  read,  by  way 
of  acquitting  myself  of  the  debt  which  I  owed  to  the  other 
story-tellers  at  the  Hall.  I  subjoin  it,  for  such  of  my  reader? 
as  are  fond  of  stories.1 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 

FROM  THE  MSS.  OF  THE  LATE  DIEDRICH  KNICKERBOCKER. 

Formerly,  almost  every  place  had  a  house  of  this  kind.  If  a  house  was  seated  on  some 
melancholy  place,  or  built  in  some  old  romantic  manner,  or  if  any  particular  accident  had 
happened  in  it,  such  as  murder,  sudden  death,  or  the  like,  to  be  sure  that  house  had  a 
mark  set  on  it,  and  was  afterwards  esteemed  the  habitation  of  a  ghost.  — BOURNE'S 
Antiquities. 

IN  the  neighborhood  of  the  ancient  city  of  the  Manhattoes, 
there  stood,  not  ver}7  many  years  since,  an  old  mansion,  which, 
when  I  was  a  boy,  went  by  the  name  of  the  Haunted  House. 
It  was  one  of  the  very  few  remains  of  the  architecture  of  the 
early  Dutch  settlers,  and  must  have  been  a  house  of  some  con- 
sequence at  the  time  when  it  was  built.  It  consisted  of  a  centre 
and  two  wings,  the  gable-ends  of  which  were  shaped  like  stairs. 
It  was  built  partly  of  wood,  and  partly  of  small  Dutch  bricks, 
such  as  the  worthy  colonists  brought  with  them  from  Holland, 
before  they  discovered  that  bricks  could  be  manufactured  else- 
where. The  house  stood  remote  from  the  road,  in  the  centre 
of  a  large  field,  with  an  avenue  of  old  locust 2  trees  leading  up 

1  I  find  that  the  tale  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  given  in  the  Sketch-Book,  has  been  discovered 
by  divers  writers  in  magazines  to  have  been  founded  on  a  little  German  tradition,  and 
the  matter  has  been  revealed  to  the  world  as  if  it  were  a  foul  instance  of  plagiarism  mar- 
vellously brought  to  light.  In  a  note  which  follows  that  tale,  I  had  alluded  to  the  super- 
stition on  which  it  was  founded,  and  I  thought  a  mere  allusion  was  sufficient,  as  the 
tradition  was  so  notorious  as  to  be  inserted  in  almost  every  collection  of  German  legends. 
I  had  seen  it  myself  in  three.  I  could  hardly  have  hoped,  therefore,  in  the  present  age, 
when  every  source  of  ghost  and  goblin  story  is  ransacked,  that  the  origin  of  the  tale 
would  escape  discovery.  In  fact,  I  had  considered  popular  traditions  of  the  kind  as  fair 
foundations  for  authors  of  fiction  to  build  upon,  and  made  use  of  the  one  in  question 
accordingly.  I  am  not  disposed  to  contest  the  matter,  however,  and  indeed  consider  my- 
self so  completely  overpaid  by  the  public  for  my  trivial  performances,  that  I  am  content 
to  submit  to  any  deduction,  which,  in  their  after-thoughts,  they  may  think  proper  to 
make. 

i  Acacias. 


THE   HAUNTED    HOUSE.  245 

to  it,  several  of  which  had  been  shivered  by  lightning,  and  two 
or  three  blown  down.  A  few  apple-trees  grew  straggling  about 
the  field ;  there  were  traces  also  of  what  had  been  a  kitchen- 
garden  ;  but  the  fences  were  broken  down,  the  vegetables  had 
disappeared,  or  had  grown  wild,  and  turned  to  little  better  than 
weeds,  with  here  and  there  a  ragged  rosebush,  or  a  tall  sun- 
flower shooting  up  from  among  the  brambles,  and  hanging  its 
head  sorrowfully,  as  if  contemplating  the  surrounding  desola- 
tion. Part  of  the  roof  of  the  old  house  had  fallen  in,  the  win- 
dows were  shattered,  the  panels  of  the  doors  broken,  and 
mended  with  rough  boards ;  and  two  rusty  weathercocks  at 
the  ends  of  the  house,  made  a  great  jingling  and  whistling  as 
they  whirled  about,  but  always  pointed  wrong.  The  appear- 
ance of  the  whole  place  was  forlorn  and  desolate,  at  the  best 
of  times ;  but,  in  unruly  weather,  the  howling  of  the  wind 
about  the  crazy  old  mansion,  the  screeching  of  the  weather- 
cocks, and  the  slamming  and  banging  of  a  few  loose  window- 
shutters,  had  altogether  so  wild  and  dreary  an  effect,  that  the 
neighborhood  stood  perfectly  in  awe  of  the  place,  and  pro- 
nounced it  the  rendezvous  of  hobgoblins.  I  recollect  the  old 
building  well ;  for  many  times,  when  an  idle,  unlucky  urchin,  I 
have  prowled  round  its  precincts,  with  some  of  my  graceless 
companions,  on  holiday  afternoons,  when  out  on  a  freebooting 
cruise  among  the  orchards.  There  was  a  tree  standing  near 
the  house,  that  bore  the  most  beautiful  and  tempting  fruit; 
but  then  it  was  on  enchanted  ground,  for  the  place  was  so 
charmed  by  frightful  stories  that  we  dreaded  to  approach  it. 
Sometimes  we  would  venture  in  a  body,  and  get  near  the  Hes- 
perian tree,  keeping  an  eye  upon  the  old  mansion,  and  darting 
fearful  glances  into  its  shattered  windows ;  when,  just  as  we 
were  about  to  seize  upon  our  prize,  an  exclamation  from  some 
one  of  the  gang,  or  an  accidental  noise,  would  throw  us  all  into 
a  panic,  and  we  would  scamper  headlong  from  the  place,  nor 
stop  until  we  had  got  quite  into  the  road.  Then  there  were 
sure  to  be  a  host  of  fearful  anecdotes  told  of  strange  cries  and 
groans,  or  of  some  hideous  face  suddenly  seen  staring  out  of 
one  of  the  windows.  By  degrees  we  ceased  to  venture  into 
these  lonely  grounds,  but  would  stand  at  a  distance  and  throw 
stones  at  the  building ;  and  there  was  something  fearfully 
pleasing  in  the  sound,  as  they  rattled  along  the  roof,  or  some- 
times struck  some  jingling  fragments  of  glass  out  of  the  win- 
dows. 

The  origin  of  this  house  was  lost  in  the  obscurity  that  covers 
the  early  period  of  the  province,  while  under  the  government  of 


246  SRACEBBIDGE   HALL. 

their  high  mightinesses  the  states-general.  Some  reported  it  to 
have  been  a  country  residence  of  Wilhelmus  Kieft,  commonly 
called  the  Testy,  one  of  the  Dutch  governors  of  New  Amster- 
dam ;  others  said  it  had  been  built  by  a  naval  commander 
who  served  under  Van  Tromp,  and  who,  on  being  disappointed 
of  preferment,  retired  from  the  service  in  disgust,  became  a 
philosopher  through  sheer  spite,  and  brought  over  all  his 
wealth  to  the  province,  that  he  might  live  according  to  his 
humor,  and  despise  the  world.  The  reason  of  its  having  fallen 
to  decay,  was  likewise  a  matter  of  dispute  ;  some  said  it  was  in 
chancery,  and  had  already  cost  more  than  its  worth  in  legal 
expense ;  but  the  most  current,  and,  of  course,  the  most  prob- 
able account,  was  that  it  was  haunted,  and  that  nobody  could 
live  quietly  in  it.  There  can,  in  fact,  be  very  little  doubt  that 
this  last  was  the  case,  there  were  so  many  corroborating  stories 
to  prove  it,  —  not  an  old  woman  in  the  neighborhood  but 
could  furnish  at  least  a  score.  A  gray-headed  curmudgeon 
of  a  negro  who  lived  hard  by,  had  a  whole  budget  of  them 
to  tell,  many  of  which  had  happened  to  himself.  I  recollect 
many  a  time  stopping  with  my  schoolmates,  and  getting  him  to 
relate  some.  The  old  crone  lived  in  a  hovel,  in  the  midst  of  a 
small  patch  of  potatoes  and  Indian  corn,  which  his  master  had 
given  him  on  setting  him  free.  He  would  come  to  us,  with  his 
hoe  in  his  hand,  and  as  we  sat  perched,  like  a  row  of  swallows, 
on  the  rail  of  the  fence,  in  the  mellow  twilight  of  a  summer 
evening,  would  tell  us  such  fearful  stories,  accompanied  by 
such  awful  rollings  of  his  white  eyes,  that  we  were  almost  afraid 
of  our  own  footsteps  as  we  returned  home  afterwards  in  the 
dark. 

Poor  old  Pompey !  many  years  are  past  since  he  died,  and 
went  to  keep  company  with  the  ghosts  he  was  so  fond  of  talk- 
ing about.  He  was  buried  in  a  corner  of  his  own  little  potato- 
patch  ;  the  plough  soon  passed  over  his  grave,  and  levelled  it 
with  the  rest  of  the  field,  and  nobody  thought  any  more  of  the 
gray-headed  negro.  By  singular  chance,  I  was  strolling  in 
that  neighborhood  several  years  afterwards,  when  I  had  grown 
up  to  be  a  young  man,  and  I  found  a  knot  of  gossips  speculat- 
ing on  a  skull  which  had  just  been  turned  up  by  a  ploughshare. 
They  of  course  determined  it  to  be  the  remains  of  some  one  who 
had  been  murdered,  and  they  had  raked  up  with  it  some  of  the 
traditionary  tales  of  the  haunted  house.  I  knew  it  at  once  to 
be  the  relic  of  poor  Pompey,  but  I  held  my  tongue ;  for  I  am 
too  considerate  of  other  people's  enjoyment,  ever  to  mar  a  story 
of  a  ghost  or  a  murder.  I  took  care,  however,  to  see  the  bones 


DOLPH  HEYLIGER.  247 

of  my  old  friend  once  more  buried  in  a  place  where  they  were 
not  likely  to  be  disturbed.  As  I  sat  on  the  turf  and  watched 
the  interment,  I  fell  into  a  long  conversation  with  an  old  gentle- 
man of  the  neighborhood,  John  Josse  Vandermoere,  a  pleasant 
gossiping  man,  whose  whole  life  was  spent  in  hearing  and  tell- 
iug  the  news  of  the  province.  He  recollected  old  Pompey,  and 
his  stories  about  the  Haunted  House ;  but  he  assured  me  he 
could  give  me  one  still  more  strange  than  any  that  Pompey  had 
related :  and  on  my  expressing  a  great  curiosity  to  hear  it,  he 
sat  down  beside  me  on  the  turf,  and  told  the  following  tale. 
I  have  endeavored  to  give  it  as  nearly  as  possible  in  his  words ; 
but  it  is  now  many  years  since,  and  I  am  grown  old,  and  my 
memory  is  not  over-good.  I  cannot  therefore  vouch  for  the 
language,  but  I  am  always  scrupulous  as  to  facts.  D.  K. 


DOLPH  HEYLIGER. 

"  I  take  the  town  of  Concord,  where  I  dwell, 
All  Kilborn  be  my  witness,  if  1  were  not 
Begot  in  bashfulness,  brought  up  in  shamefacedneee. 
Let  'un  bring  a  dog  but  to  my  vace  that  can 
Zay  I  have  beat  'un,  and  without  a  vault; 
Or  but  a  cat  will  swear  upon  a  book, 
I  have  as  much  as  zet  a  vire  her  tail, 
And  I'll  give  him  or  her  a  crown  for  "mende." —  Tale  of  a  Tub. 

IN  the  early  time  of  the  province  of  New  York,  while  it 
groaned  under  the  tyranny  of  the  English  governor,  Lord 
Cornbury,  who  carried  his  cruelties  towards  the  Dutch  inhabit- 
ants so  far  as  to  allow  no  Dominie,  or  schoolmaster,  to  officiate 
in  their  language,  without  his  special  license ;  about  this  time, 
there  lived  in  the  jolly  little  old  city  of  the  Manhattoes,  a  kind 
motherly  dame,  known  by  the  name  of  Dame  Heyliger.  She 
was  the  widow  of  a  Dutch  sea-captain,  who  died  suddenly  of  a 
fever,  in  consequence  of  working  too  hard,  and  eating  too 
heartily,  at  the  time  when  all  the  inhabitants  turned  out  in  a 
panic,  to  fortify  the  place  against  the  invasion  of  a  small  French 
privateer.1  He  left  her  with  very  little  money,  and  one  infant 
son,  the  only  survivor  of  several  children.  The  good  woman 
had  need  of  much  management,  to  make  both  ends  meet,  and 
keep  up  a  decent  appearance.  However,  as  her  husband  had 


248  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

fallen  a  victim  to  his  zeal  for  the  public  safety,  it  was  univer« 
sally  agreed  that  "  something  ought  to  be  done  for  the  widow  ;  " 
and  on  the  hopes  of  this  "something"  she  lived  tolerably  for 
some  3rears  ;  in  the  mean  time,  everybody  pitied  and  spoke  well 
of  her  ;  and  that  helped  along. 

She  lived  in  a  small  house,  in  a  small  street,  called  Garden- 
street,  very  probably  from  a  garden  which  may  have  flourished 
there  some  time  or  other.  As  her  necessities  every  year  grew 
greater,  and  the  talk  of  the  public  about  doing  ' '  something  for 
her  "  grew  less,  she  had  to  cast  about  for  some  mode  of  doing 
something  for  herself,  by  way  of  helping  out  her  slender  means, 
and  maintaining  her  independence,  of  which  she  was  somewhat 
tenacious. 

Living  in  a  mercantile  town,  she  had  caught  something  of  the 
spirit,*aud  determined  to  venture  a  little  in  the  great  lottery  of 
commerce.  On  a  sudden,  therefore,  to  the  great  surprise  of 
the  street,  there  appeared  at  her  window  a  grand  array  of  gin- 
gerbread kings  and  queens,  with  their  arms  stuck  a-kimbo, 
after  the  invariable  royal  manner.  There  were  also  several 
broken  tumblers,  some  filled  with  sugar-plums,  some  with  mar- 
bles ;  there  were,  moreover,  cakes  of  various  kinds,  and  barley 
sugar,  and  Holland  dolls,  and  wooden  horses,  with  here  and 
there  gilt-covered  picture-books,  and  now  and  then  a  skein  of 
thread,  or  a  dangling  pound  of  candles.  At  the  door  of  the 
house  sat  the  good  old  dame's  cat,  a  decent  demure-looking 
personage,  who  seemed  to  scan  everybody  that  passed,  to  criticise 
their  dress,  and  now  and  then  to  stretch  her  neck,  and  look  out 
with  sudden  curiosity,  to  see  what  was  going  on  at  the  other  end 
of  the  street ;  but  if  by  chance  any  idle  vagabond  dog  came  by, 
and  offered  to  be  uncivil  —  hoity-toity !  —  how  she  would  bristle 
up,  and  growl,  and  spit,  and  strike  out  her  paws  !  she  was  as  in- 
dignant aa  ever  was  an  ancient  and  ugly  spinster,  on  the  ap- 
proach of  some  graceless  profligate. 

But  though  the  good  woman  had  to  come  down  to  those  hum- 
ble means  of  subsistence,  yet  she  still  kept  up  a  feeling  of 
family  pride,  being  descended  from  the  Vanderspiegels,  of  Am- 
sterdam; and  she  had  the  family  arms  painted  and  framed, 
and  hung  over  her  mantel-piece.  She  was,  in  truth,  much  re- 
spected by  all  the  poorer  people  of  the  place ;  her  house  was 
quite  a  resort  of  the  old  wives  of  the  neighborhood ;  they  would 
drop  in  there  of  a  winter's  afternoon,  as  she  sat  knitting  on 
one  side  of  her  fireplace,  her  cat  purring  on  the  other,  and  the 
tea-kettle  singing  before  it;  and  they  would  gossip  with  her 
until  late  in  the  evening.  There  was  always  an  arm-chair  for 


DOLPH  HEYLIGER.  249 

Peter  de  Groodt,  sometimes  called  Long  Peter,  and  sometimes 
Peter  Longlegs,  the  clerk  and  sexton  of  the  little  Lutheran 
church,  who  was  her  great  crony,  and  indeed  the  oracle  of  her 
fireside.  Nay,  the  Dominie  himself  did  not  disdain,  now  and 
then,  to  step  in,  converse  about  the  state  of  her  mind,  and  take 
a  glass  of  her  special  good  cherry-brandy.  Indeed,  he  never 
failed  to  call  on  new-year's  day,  and  wish  her  a  happy  new  year ; 
and  the  good  dame,  who  was  a  little  vain  on  some  points,  always 
piqued  herself  on  giving  him  as  large  a  cake  as  any  one  in  town. 

I  have  said  that  she  had  one  son.  He  was  the  child  of  her 
old  age ;  but  could  hardly  be  called  the  comfort  —  for,  of  all 
unlucky  urchins,  Dolph  Heyliger  was  the  most  mischievous. 
Not  that  the  whipster  was  really  vicious ;  he  was  only  full  of 
fun  and  frolic,  and  had  that  daring,  gamesome  spirit,  which  is 
extolled  in  a  rich  man's  child,  but  execrated  in  a  poor  man's. 
He  was  continually  getting  into  scrapes  :  his  mother  was  inces- 
santly harassed  with  complaints  of  some  waggish  pranks  which 
he  had  played  off ;  bills  were  sent  in  for  windows  that  he  had 
broken ;  in  a  word,  he  had  not  reached  his  fourteenth  year 
before  he  was  pronounced,  by  all  the  neighborhood,  to  be  a 
"  wicked  dog,  the  wickedest  dog  in  the  street !  "  Nay,  one  old 
gentleman,  in  a  claret-colored  coat,  with  a  thin  red  face,  and 
ferret  eyes,  went  so  far  as  to  assure  Dame  Heyliger,  that  her 
son  would,  one  day  or  other,  come  to  the  gallows  ! 

Yet,  notwithstanding  all  this,  the  poor  old  soul  loved  her, 
boy.  It  seemed  as  though  she  loved  him  the  better,  the  worse 
he  behaved ;  and  that  he  grew  more  in  her  favor,  the  more  he 
grew  out  of  favor  with  the  world.  Mothers  are  foolish,  fond- 
hearted  beings  ;  there's  no  reasoning  them  out  of  their  dotage  ; 
and,  indeed,  this  poor  woman's  child  was  all  that  was  left  to 
>\ove  her  in  this  world  ;  —  so  we  must  not  think  it  hard  that  si 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  her  good  friends,  who  sought  to  prove  to 
her  that  Dolph  would  come  to  a  halter. 

To  do  the  varlet  justice,  too,  he  was  strongly  attached  to  his 
parent.  He  would  not  willingly  have  given  her  pain  on  any 
account ;  and  when  he  had  been  doing  wrong,  it  was  but  for 
him  to  catch  his  poor  mother's  eye  fixed  wistfully  and  sorrow- 
fully upon  him,  to  fill  his  heart  with  bitterness  and  contrition. 
But  he  was  a  heedless  youngster,  and  could  not,  for  the  life  of 
him,  resist  any  new  temptation  to  fun  and  mischief.  Though 
quick  at  his  learning,  whenever  he  could  be  brought  to  apply 
himself,  he  was  always  prone  to  be  led  away  by  idle  company, 
and  would  play  truant  to  hunt  after  birds'-nests,  to  rob  or 
chards,  or  to  swim  in  the  Hudson. 


250  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

In  this  way  he  grew  up,  a  tall,  lubberly  boy  ;  and  his  mother 
began  to  be  greatly  perplexed  what  to  do  with  him,  or  how  to 
put  him  in  a  way  to  do  for  himself ;  for  he  had  acquired  such 
an  unlucky  reputation,  that  no  one  seemed  willing  to  employ 
him. 

Many  were  the  consultations  that  she  held  with  Peter  de 
Groodt,  the  clerk  and  sexton,  who  was  her  prime  counsellor. 
Peter  was  as  much  perplexed  as  herself,  for  he  had  no  great 
opinion  of  the  boy,  and  thought  he  would  never  come  to  good. 
He  at  one  time  advised  her  to  send  him  to  sea  —  a  piece  of 
advice  only  given  in  the  most  desperate  cases  ;  but  Dame  Hey- 
liger  would  not  listen  to  such  an  idea ;  she  could  not  think  of 
letting  Dolph  go  out  of  her  sight.  She  was  sitting  one  day 
knitting  by  her  fireside,  in  great  perplexity,  when  the  sexton 
entered  with  an  air  of  unusual  vivacity  and  briskness.  He  had 
just  come  from  a  funeral.  It  had  been  that  of  a  boy  of  Dolph's 
years,  who  had  been  apprentice  to  a  famous  German  doctor, 
and  had  died  of  a  consumption.  It  is  true,  there  had  been  a 
whisper  that  the  deceased  had  been  brought  to  his  end  by  being 
made  the  subject  of  the  doctor's  experiments,  on  which  he  was 
apt  to  try  the  effects  of  a  new  compound,  or  a  quieting  draught. 
This,  however,  it  is  likely,  was  a  mere  scandal ;  at  any  rate, 
Peter  de  Groodt  did  not  think  it  worth  mentioning ;  though, 
had  we  time  to  philosophize,  it  would  be  a  curious  matter  for 
speculation,  why  a  doctor's  family  is  apt  to  be  so  lean  and 
cadaverous,  and  a  butcher's  so  jolly  and  rubicund. 

Peter  de  Groodt,  as  I  said  before,  entered  the  house  of  Dame 
Heyliger  with  unusual  alacrity.  A  bright  idea  had  popped 
into  his  head  at  the  funeral,  over  which  he  had  chuckled 
as  he  shovelled  the  earth  into  the  grave  of  the  doctor's  dis- 
ciple. It  had  occurred  to  him,  that,  as  the  situation  of  the 
deceased  was  vacant  at  the  doctor's,  it  would  be  the  very  place 
for  Dolph.  The  boy  had  parts,  and  could  pound  a  pestle  and 
run  an  errand  with  any  boy  in  the  town  —  and  what  more  was 
wanted  in  a  student? 

The  suggestion  of  the  sage  Peter  was  a  vision  of  glory  to  the 
mother.  She  already  saw  Dolph,  in  her  mind's  eye,  with  a 
cane  at  his  nose,  a  knocker  at  his  door,  and  an  M.D.  at  the 
end  of  his  name  —  one  of  the  established  dignitaries  of  the 
town. 

The  matter,  once  undertaken,  was  soon  effected ;  the  sexton 
had  some  influence  with  the  doctor,  they  having  had  much  deal- 
ing together  in  the  way  of  their  separate  professions ;  and  the 
very  next  morning  he  called  and  conducted  the  urchin,  clad  in 


DOLPH  HEYLIGEB.  251 

his  Sunday  clothes,  to  undergo  the  inspection  of  Dr.  Karl  Lodo- 
vick  Knipperhausen. 

They  found  the  doctor  seated  in  an  elbow-chair,  in  one  corner 
of  his  study,  or  laboratory,  with  a  large  volume,  in  German 
print,  before  him.  He  was  a  short,  fat  man,  with  a  dark, 
square  face,  rendered  more  dark  by  a  black  velvet  cap.  He 
had  a  little,  knobbed  nose,  not  unlike  the  ace  of  spades,  with  a 
pair  of  spectacles  gleaming  on  each  side  of  his  dusky  counte- 
nance, like  a  couple  of  bow-windows. 

Dolph  felt  struck  with  awe,  on  entering  into  the  presence  of 
this  learned  man ;  and  gazed  about  him  with  boyish  wonder  at 
the  furniture  of  this  chamber  of  knowledge,  which  appeared  to 
him  almost  as  the  den  of  a  magician.  In  the  centre  stood  a 
claw-footed  table,  with  pestle  and  mortar,  phials  and  gallipots^ 
and  a  pair  of  small,  burnished  scales.  At  one  end  was  a  heavy 
clothes-press,  turned  into  a  receptacle  for  drugs  and  compounds  ; 
against  which  hung  the  doctor's  hat  and  cloak,  and  gold-headed 
cane,  and  on  the  top  grinned  a  human  skull.  Along  the  mantel- 
piece were  glass  vessels,  in  which  were  snakes  and  lizards,  and 
a  human  foetus  preserved  in  spirits.  A  closet,  the  doors  of 
which  were  taken  off,  contained  three  whole  shelves  of  books, 
and  some,  too,  of  mighty  folio  dimensions — a  collection,  the 
like  of  which  Dolph  had  never  before  beheld.  As,  however, 
the  library  did  not  take  up  the  whole  of  the  closet,  the  doctor's 
thrifty  housekeeper  had  occupied  the  rest  with  pots  of  pickles 
and  preserves  ;  and  had  hung  about  the  room,  among  awful  im- 
plements of  the  healing  art,  strings  of  red  pepper  and  corpulent 
cucumbers,  carefully  preserved  for  seed. 

Peter  de  Groodt,  and  his  prot£g£,  were  received  with  great 
gravity  and  stateliness  by  the  doctor,  who  was  a  very  wise, 
dignified  little  man,  and  never  smiled.  He  surveyed  Dolph 
from  head  to  foot,  above,  and  under,  and  through  his  spec- 
tacles ;  and  the  poor  lad's  heart  quailed  as  these  great  glasses 
glared  on  him  like  two  full  moons.  The  doctor  heard  all  that 
Peter  de  Groodt  had  to  say  in  favor  of  the  youthful  candidate  ; 
and  then,  wetting  his  thumb  with  the  end  of  his  tongue,  he 
began  deliberately  to  turn  over  page  after  page  of  the  great, 
black  volume  before  him.  At  length,  after  many  hums  and 
haws,  and  strokings  of  the  chin,  and  all  that  hesitation  and 
deliberation  with  which  a  wise  man  proceeds  to  do  what  he 
intended  to  do  from  the  very  first,  the  doctor  agreed  to  take 
the  lad  as  a  disciple  ;  to  give  him  bed,  board,  and  clothing,  and 
to  instruct  him  in  the  healing  art ;  in  return  for  which,  he  was  to 
Have  his  services  until  his  twenty-first  year. 


252  BEACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

Behold,  then,  our  hero,  all  at  once  transformed  from  an  un 
lucky  urchin,  running  wild  about  the  streets,  to  a  student  of 
medicine,  diligently  pounding  a  pestle,  under  the  auspices  of 
the  learned  Doctor  Karl  Lodovick  Knipperhausen.  It  was  a 
happy  transition  for  his  fond  old  mother.  She  was  delighted 
with  the  idea  of  her  boy's  being  brought  up  worthy  of  his 
ancestors ;  and  anticipated  the  day  when  he  would  be  able  to 
hold  up  his  head  with  the  lawyer,  that  lived  in  the  large  house 
opposite ;  or,  peradventure,  with  the  Dominie  himself. 

Doctor  Knipperhausen  was  a  native  of  the  Palatinate  of  Ger- 
many ;  whence,  in  company  with  many  of  his  countrymen,  he 
had  taken  refuge  in  England,  on  account  of  religious  perse- 
cution. He  was  one  of  nearly  three  thousand  Palatines,  who 
came  over  from  England  in  1710,  under  the  protection  of 
Governor  Hunter.  Where  the  doctor  had  studied,  how  he  had 
acquired  his  medical  knowledge,  and  where  he  had  received  his 
diploma,  it  is  hard  at  present  to  say,  for  nobody  knew  at  the  time  ; 
yet  it  is  certain  that  his  profound  skill  and  abstruse  knowledge 
were  the  talk  and  wonder  of  the  common  people,  far  and  near. 

His  practice  was  totally  different  from  that  of  any  other 
physician  ;  consisting  in  mysterious  compounds,  known  only  to 
himself,  in  the  preparing  and  administering  of  which,  it  was 
said,  he  always  consulted  the  stars.  So  high  an  opinion  was 
entertained  of  his  skill,  particularly  by  the  German  and  Dutch 
inhabitants,  that  they  always  resorted  to  him  in  desperate 
cases.  He  was  one  of  those  infallible  doctors,  that  are  always 
effecting  sudden  and  surprising  cures,  when  the  patient  has 
been  given  up  by  all  the  regular  physicians ;  unless,  as  is 
shrewdly  observed,  the  case  has  been  left  too  long  before  it 
was  put  into  their  hands.  The  doctor's  library  was  the  talk 
and  marvel  of  the  neighborhood,  I  might  almost  say  of  the 
entire  burgh.  The  good  people  looked  with  reverence  at  a  man 
who  had  read  three  whole  shelves  full  of  books,  and  some  ol 
them,  too,  as  large  as  a  family  Bible.  There  were  many  dis- 
putes among  the  members  of  the  little  Lutheran  church,  as  to 
which  was  the  wiser  man,  the  doctor  or  the  Dominie.  Some 
of  his  admirers  even  went  so  far  as  to  say,  that  he  knew  more 
than  the  governor  himself  —  in  a  word,  it  was  thought  that 
there  was  no  end  to  his  knowledge  ! 

No  sooner  was  Dolph  received  into  the  doctor's  family,  than 
he  was  put  in  possession  of  the  lodging  of  his  predecessor.  It 
was  a  garret-room  of  a  steep-roofed  Dutch  house,  where  the 
rain  pattered  on  the  shingles,  and  the  lightning  gleamed,  and  the 
wind  piped  through  the  crannies  in  stormy  weather ;  and  where 


DOLPH  HETLIGEE.  253 

whole  troops  of  hungry  rats,  like  Don  Cossacks,  galloped  about 
in  defiance  of  traps  and  ratsbane. 

He  was  soon  up  to  his  ears  in  medical  studies,  being  em- 
ployed, morning,  noon,  and  night,  in  rolling  pills,  filtering 
tinctures,  or  pounding  the  pestle  and  mortar,  in  one  corner  of 
the  laboratory  ;  while  the  doctor  would  take  his  seat  in  another 
corner,  when  he  had  nothing  else  to  do,  or  expected  visitors, 
and,  arrayed  in  his  morning-gown  and  velvet  cap,  would  pore 
over  the  contents  of  some  folio  volume.  It  is  true,  that  the 
3'egular  thumping  of  Dolph's  pestle,  or,  perhaps,  the  drowsy 
buzzing  of  the  summer  flies,  would  now  and  then  lull  the  little 
nuui  into  a  slumber ;  but  then  his  spectacles  were  always  wide 
:; \vake,  and  studiously  regarding  the  book. 

There  was  another  personage  in  the  house,  however,  to  whom 
Dolph  was  obliged  to  pay  allegiance.  Though  a  bachelor,  and 
a  man  of  such  great  dignity  and  importance,  the  doctor  was, 
like  many  other  wise  men,  subject  to  petticoat  government. 
Me  was  complete!}7  under  the  sway  of  his  housekeeper ;  a  spare, 
busy,  fretting  housewife,  in  a  little,  round,  quilted,  German  cap, 
with  a  huge  bunch  of  keys  jingling  at  the  girdle  of  an  exceed- 
ingly long  waist.  Frau  Ils6  (or  Frow  Ilsy,  as  it  was  pro- 
nounced) had  accompanied  him  in  his  various  migrations  from 
Germany  to  England,  and  from  England  to  the  province  ;  man- 
aging his  establishment  and  himself  too :  ruling  him,  it  is  true, 
with  a  gentle  hand,  but  carrying  a  high  hand  with  all  the  world 
beside.  How  she  had  acquired  such  ascendency,  I  do  not  pre- 
tend to  say.  People,  it  is  true,  did  talk  —  but  have  not  people 
been  prone  to  talk  ever  since  the  world  began  ?  Who  can  tell 
how  women  generally  contrive  to  get  the  upper  hand  ?  A  hus- 
band, it  is  true,  may  now  and  then  be  master  in  his  own  house ; 
but  who  ever  knew  a  bachelor  that  was  not  managed  by  his 
housekeeper? 

Indeed,  Frau  Ilsy's  power  was  not  confined  to  the  doctor's 
household.  She  was  one  of  those  prying  gossips  who  know 
every  one's  business  better  than  they  do  themselves  ;  and  whose 
all-seeing  eyes,  and  all-telling  tongues,  are  terrors  throughout 
a  neighborhood. 

Nothing  of  any  moment  transpired  in  the  world  of  scandal 
of  this  little  burgh,  but  it  was  known  to  Frau  Ilsy.  She  had 
her  crew  of  cronies,  that  were  perpetually  hurrying  to  her  little 
parlor,  with  some  precious  bit  of  news ;  nay,  she  would  some- 
times discuss  a  whole  volume  of  secret  history,  as  she  held  the 
street-door  ajar,  and  gossiped  with  one  of  these  garrulous 
cronies  in  the  very  teeth  of  a  December  blast. 


254  BEACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

Between  the  doctor  and  the  housekeeper,  it  may  easily  be 
supposed  that  Dolph  had  a  busy  life  of  it.  As  Frau  Ilsy  kept 
the  keys,  and  literally  ruled  the  roast,  it  was  starvation  to 
offend  her,  though  he  found  the  study  of  her  temper  more  per- 
plexing even  than  that  of  medicine.  When  not  busy  in  the 
laboratory,  she  kept  him  running  hither  and  thither  on  her 
errands ;  and  on  Sundays  he  was  obliged  to  accompany  her  to 
and  from  church,  and  carry  her  Bible.  Many  a  time  has  the 
poor  varlet  stood  shivering  and  blowing  his  fingers,  or  holding 
his  frost-bitten  nose,  in  the  church-yard,  while  Ilsy  and  her 
cronies  were  huddled  together,  wagging  their  heads,  and  tear- 
ing some  unlucky  character  to  pieces. 

With  all  his  advantages,  however,  Dolph  made  very  slow 
progress  in  his  art.  This  was  no  fault  of  the  doctor's,  cer- 
tainly, for  he  took  unwearied  pains  with  the  lad,  keeping  him 
close  to  the  pestle  and  mortar,  or  on  the  trot  about  town  with 
phials  and  pill-boxes ;  and  if  he  ever  flagged  in  his  industry, 
which  he  was  rather  apt  to  do,  the  doctor  would  fly  into  a 
passion,  and  ask  him  if  he  ever  expected  to  learn  his  profes- 
sion, unless  he  applied  himself  closer  to  the  study.  The  fact 
is,  he  still  retained  the  fondness  for  sport  and  mischief  that 
had  marked  his  childhood  ;  the  habit,  indeed,  had  strengthened 
with  his  years,  and  gained  force  from  being  thwarted  and  con- 
strained. He  daily  grew  more  and  more  untractable,  and  lost 
favor  in  the  eyes  both  of  the  doctor  and  the  housekeeper. 

In  the  mean  time  the  doctor  went  on,  waxing  wealthy  and 
renowned.  He  was  famous  for  his  skill  in  managing  cases  not 
laid  down  in  the  books.  He  had  cured  several  old  women  and 
young  girls  of  witchcraft ;  a  terrible  complaint,  nearly  as  preva- 
lent in  the  province  in  those  days  as  hydrophobia  is  at  present. 
He  had  even  restored  one  strapping  country  girl  to  perfect 
health,  who  had  gone  so  far  as  to  vomit  crooked  pins  and 
needles ;  which  is  considered  a  desperate  stage  of  the  malady. 
It  was  whispered,  also,  that  he  was  possessed  of  the  art  of 
preparing  love-powders ;  and  many  applications  had  he  in  con- 
sequence from  love-sick  patients  of  both  sexes.  But  all  these 
cases  formed  the  mysterious  part  of  his  practice,  in  which, 
according  to  the  cant  phrase,  "  secrecy  and  honor  might  be 
depended  on."  Dolph,  therefore,  was  obliged  to  turn  out  of 
the  study  whenever  such  consultations  occurred,  though  it  is 
said  he  learnt  more  of  the  secrets  of  the  art  at  the  key-hole, 
than  by  all  the  rest  of  his  studies  put  together. 

As  the  doctor  increased  in  wealth,  he  began  to  extend  his 
possessions,  and  to  look  forward,  like  other  great  men,  to  the 


DOLPH  HEYLIGER.  255 

time  when  he  should  retire  to  the  repose  of  a  country-seat. 
For  this  purpose  he  had  purchased  a  farm,  or,  as  the  Dutch 
settlers  called  it,  a  bowerie,  a  few  miles  from  town.  It  had 
been  the  residence  of  a  wealthy  family,  that  had  returned  some 
time  since  to  Holland.  A  large  mansion-house  stood  in  the 
centre  of  it,  very  much  out  of  repair,  and  which,  in  consequence 
of  certain  reports,  had  received  the  appellation  of  the  Haunted 
House.  Either  from  these  reports,  or  from  its  actual  dreari- 
ness, the  doctor  found  it  impossible  to  get  a  tenant;  and,  that 
the  place  might  not  fall  to  ruin  before  he  could  reside  in  it  him- 
self, he  placed  a  country  boor,  with  his  family,  in  one  wing,  with 
the  privilege  of  cultivating  the  farm  on  shares. 

The  doctor  now  felt  all  the  dignity  of  a  landholder  rising 
within  him.  He  had  a  little  of  the  German  pride  of  territory 
in  his  composition,  and  almost  looked  upon  himself  as  owner 
of  a  principality.  He  began  to  complain  of  the  fatigue  of  busi- 
ness ;  and  was  fond  of  riding  out  "  to  look  at  his  estate."  His 
little  expeditions  to  his  lands  were  attended  with  a  bustle  and 
parade  that  created  a  sensation  throughout  the  neighborhood. 
His  wall-eyed  horse  stood,  stamping  and  whisking  off  the  flies, 
for  a  full  hour  before  the  house.  Then  the  doctor's  saddle-bags 
would  be  brought  out  and  adjusted ;  then,  after  a  little  while, 
his  cloak  would  be  rolled  up  and  strapped  to  the  saddle ;  then 
his  umbrella  would  be  buckled  to  the  cloak;  while,  in  the 
mean  time,  a  group  of  ragged  boys,  that  observant  class  of 
beings,  would  gather  before  the  door.  At  length,  the  doctor 
would  issue  forth,  in  a  pair  of  jack-boots  that  reached  above 
his  knees,  and  a  cocked  hat  flapped  down  in  front.  As  he  was 
a  short,  fat  man,  he  took  some  time  to  mount  into  the  saddle ; 
and  when  there,  he  took  some  time  to  have  the  saddle  and 
stirrups  properly  adjusted,  enjoying  the  wonder  and  admiration 
of  the  urchin  crowd.  Even  after  he  had  set  off,  he  would 
pause  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  or  trot  back  two  or  three 
times  to  give  some  parting  orders ;  which  were  answered  by 
the  housekeeper  from  the  door,  or  Dolph  from  the  study,  or 
the  black  cook  from  the  cellar,  or  the  chambermaid  from  the 
garret-window;  and  there  were  generally  some  last  words 
bawled  after  him,  just  as  he  was  turning  the  corner. 

The  whole  neighborhood  would  be  aroused  by  this  pomp  and 
circumstance.  The  cobbler  would  leave  his  last ;  the  barber 
would  thrust  out  his  frizzed  head,  with  a  comb  sticking  in  it ; 
a  knot  would  collect  at  the  grocer's  door,  and  the  word  would 
be  buzzed  from  one  end  of  the  street  to  the  other,  "  The  doctor's 
riding  out  to  his  country-seat !  " 


256  BEACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

These  were  golden  moments  for  Dolph.  No  sooner  was  the 
doctor  out  of  sight,  than  pestle  and  mortar  were  abandoned ; 
the  laboratory  was  left  to  take  care  of  itself,  and  the  student 
was  off  on  some  madcap  frolic. 

Indeed,  it  must  be  confessed,  the  youngster,  as  he  grew  up, 
seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  fulfil  the  prediction  of  the  old  claret- 
colored  gentleman.  He  was  the  ringleader  of  all  holiday 
sports,  and  midnight  gambols  ;  read}T  for  all  kinds  of  mischiev- 
ous pranks,  and  harebrained  adventures. 

There  is  nothing  so  troublesome  as  a  hero  on  a  small  scale, 
or,  rather,  a  hero  in  a  small  town.  Dolph  soon  became  the 
abhorrence  of  all  drowsy,  housekeeping  old  citizens,  who  hated 
noise,  and  had  no  relish  for  waggery.  The  good  dames,  too, 
considered  him  as  little  better  than  a  reprobate,  gathered  their 
daughters  under  their  wings  whenever  he  approached,  and 
pointed  him  out  as  a  warning  to  their  sons.  No  one  seemed  to 
hold  him  in  much  regard,  excepting  the  wild  striplings  of  the 
place,  who  were  captivated  by  his  open-hearted,  daring  man- 
ners, and  the  negroes,  who  alwaj-s  look  upon  every  idle,  do- 
nothing  youngster  as  a  kind  of  gentleman.  Even  the  good 
Peter  de  Grooclt,  who  had  considered  himself  a  kind  of  patron 
of  the  lad,  began  to  despair  of  him  ;  and  would  shake  his  head 
dubiously,  as  he  listened  to  a  long  complaint  from  the  house- 
keeper, and  sipped  a  glass  of  her  raspberry  brandy. 

Still  his  mother  was  not  to  be  wearied  out  of  her  affection, 
by  all  the  waywardness  of  her  boy ;  nor  disheartened  by  the 
stories  of  his  misdeeds,  with  which  her  good  friends  were  con- 
tinually regaling  her.  She  had,  it  is  true,  very  little  of  the 
pleasure  which  rich  people  enjoy,  in  always  hearing  their  chil- 
dren praised ;  but  she  considered  all  this  ill-will  as  a  kind  of 
persecution  which  he  suffered,  and  she  liked  him  the  better  on 
that  account.  She  saw  him  growing  up,  a  fine,  tall,  good-look- 
ing youngster,  and  she  looked  at  him  with  the  secret  pride  of 
a  mother's  heart.  It  was  her  great  desire  that  Dolph  should 
appear  like  a  gentleman,  and  all  the  money  she  could  save 
went  towards  helping  out  his  pocket  and  his  wardrobe.  She 
would  look  out  of  the  window  after  him,  as  he  sallied  forth  in 
his  best  array,  and  her  heart  would  yearn  with  delight ;  and 
once,  when  Peter  de  Groodt,  struck  with  the  youngster's 
gallant  appearance  on  a  bright  Sunday  morning,  observed, 
4k  Well,  after  all,  Dolph  does  grow  a  comely  fellow !  "  the  tear 
of  pride  started  into  the  mother's  eye  :  "  Ah,  neighbor !  neigh- 
bor !  "  exclaimed  she,  "  they  may  say  what  they  please ;  poor 
Dolph  will  yet  hold  up  his  head  with  the  best  of  them." 


DOLPH    HEYLIGEE.  257 

Dolph  Heyliger  had  now  nearly  attained  his  one-and-twen- 
tieth-year,  and  the  term  of  his  medical  studies  was  just  expiring ; 
yet  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  knew  little  more  of  the  pro- 
fession than  when  he  first  entered  the  doctor's  doors.  This, 
however,  could  not  be  from  any  want  of  quickness  of  parts,  for 
he  showed  amazing  aptness  in  mastering  other  branches  of 
knowledge,  which  he  could  only  have  studied  at  intervals.  He 
was,  for  instance,  a  sure  marksman,  and  won  all  the  geese  and 
turkeys  at  Christmas  holidays.  He  was  a  bold  rider ;  he  was 
famous  for  leaping  and  wrestling ;  he  played  tolerably  on  the 
fiddle ;  could  swim  like  a  fish ;  and  was  the  best  hand  in  the 
whole  place  at  fives  or  nine-pins. 

All  these  accomplishments,  however,  procured  him  no  favor 
in  the  eyes  of  the  doctor,  who  grew  more  and  more  crabbed 
and  intolerant,  the  nearer  the  term  of  apprenticeship  ap- 
proached. Frau  Ilsy,  too,  was  forever  finding  some  occasion 
to  raise  a  windy  tempest  about  his  ears ;  and  seldom  encoun- 
tered him  about  the  house,  without  a  clatter  of  the  tongue  ;  so 
that  at  length  the  jingling  of  her  keys,  as  she  approached,  was 
to  Dolph  like  the  ringing  of  the  prompter's  bell,  that  gives 
notice  of  a  theatrical  thunder-storm.  Nothing  but  the  infinite 
good-humor  of  the  heedless  youngster,  enabled  him  to  bear  all 
this  domestic  tyranny  without  open  rebellion.  It  was  evident 
that  the  doctor  and  his  housekeeper  were  preparing  to  beat  the 
poor  youth  out  of  the  nest,  the  moment  his  term  should  have 
expired  ;  a  shorthand  mode  which  the  doctor  had  of  providing 
for  useless  disciples. 

Indeed,  the  little  man  had  been  rendered  more  than  usually 
irritable  lately,  in  consequence  of  various  cares  and  vexations 
which  his  country  estate  had  brought  upon  him.  The  doctor 
had  been  repeatedly  annoyed  by  the  rumors  and  tales  which 
prevailed  concerning  the  old  mansion  ;  and  found  it  difficult  to 
prevail  even  upon  the  countryman  and  his  family  to  remain 
there  rent-free.  Every  time  he  rode  out  to  the  farm,  he  was 
teased  by  some  fresh  complaint  of  strange  noises  and  fearful 
sights,  with  which  the  tenants  were  disturbed  at  night ;  and 
the  doctor  would  come  home  fretting  and  fuming,  and  vent  his 
spleen  upon  the  whole  household.  It  was  indeed  a  sore  griev- 
ance, that  affected  him  both  in  pride  and  purse.  He  was 
threatened  with  an  absolute  loss  of  the  profits  of  his  property  ; 
and  then,  what  a  blow  to  his  territorial  consequence,  to  be  the 
landlord  of  a  haunted  house  ! 

It  was  observed,  however,  that  with  all  his  vexation,  the 
doctor  never  proposed  to  sleep  in  the  house  himself ;  nay,  he 


258  BRACEBRIDGE    HALL. 

could  never  be  prevailed  upon  to  remain  on  the  premises  after 
dark,  but  made  the  best  of  his  way  for  town,  as  soon  as  the 
bats  began  to  flit  about  in  the  twilight.  The  fact  was,  the  doc- 
tor had  a  secret  belief  in  ghosts,  having  passed  the  early  part 
of  his  life  in  a  country  where  they  particularly  abound ;  and 
indeed  the  story  went,  that,  when  a  boy,  he  had  once  seen  the 
devil  upon  the  Hartz  mountains  in  Germany. 

At  length,  the  doctor's  vexations  on  this  head  were  brought 
to  a  crisis.  One  morning,  as  he  sat  dozing  over  a  volume  in 
his  study,  he  was  suddenly  started  from  his  slumbers  by  the 
bustling  in  of  the  housekeeper. 

"Here's  a  fine  to  do !  "  cried  she,  as  she  entered  the  room. 
"  Here's  Glaus  Hopper  come  in,  bag  and  baggage,  from  the 
farm,  and  swears  he'll  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  it.  The 
whole  family  have  been  frightened  out  of  their  wits  ;  for  there's 
such  racketing  and  rummaging  about  the  old  house,  that  they 
can't  sleep  quiet  in  their  beds  !  " 

"  Donner  und  blitzen  !  "  cried  the  doctor,  impatiently ;  "  will 
they  never  have  done  chattering  about  that  house  ?  What  a 
pack  of  fools,  to  let  a  few  rats  and  mice  frighten  them  out  of 
good  quarters !  " 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  the  housekeeper,  wagging  her  head  know- 
ingly, and  piqued  at  having  a  good  ghost  story  doubted, 
"  there's  more  in  it  than  rats  and  mice.  All  the  neighborhood 
talks  about  the  house ;  and  then  such  sights  have  been  seen  in 
it !  Peter  de  Groodt  tells  me,  that  the  family  that  sold  you  the 
house  and  went  to  Holland,  dropped  several  strange  hints 
about  it,  and  said,  '  they  wished  you  joy  of  your  bargain  ; '  and 
you  know  yourself  there's  no  getting  any  family  to  live  in  it." 

"  Peter  de  Groodt's  a  ninny  —  an  old  woman,"  said  the  doctor, 
peevishly  ;  "  I'll  warrant  he's  been  filling  these  people's  heads 
full  of  stories.  It's  just  like  his  nonsense  about  the  ghost  that 
haunted  the  church  belfry,  as  an  excuse  for  not  ringing  the  bell 
that  cold  night  when  Harmanus  Brinkerhoff's  house  was  on  fire. 
Send  Glaus  to  me." 

Glaus  Hopper  now  made  his  appearance :  a  simple  country 
lout,  full  of  awe  at  finding  himself  in  the  very  study  of  Dr. 
Knipperhausen,  and  too  much  embarrassed  to  enter  in  much 
detail  of  the  matters  that  had  caused  his  alarm.  He  stood 
twirling  his  hat  in  one  hand,  resting  sometimes  on  one  leg, 
sometimes  on  the  other,  looking  occasionally  at  the  doctor,  and 
now  and  then  stealing  a  fearful  glance  at  the  death's-head  that 
seemed  ogling  him  from  the  top  of  the  clothes-press. 

The  doctor  tried  every  means  to  persuade  him  to  return  to 


DOLPH  HEYLIGER.  259 

the  farm,  but  all  in  vain ;  he  maintained  a  dogged  determi- 
nation on  the  subject ;  and  at  the  close  of  every  argument  or 
solicitation,  would  make  the  same  brief,  inflexible  reply,  "  Ich 
kan  nicht,  mynheer."  The  doctor  was  a  "  little  pot,  and  soon 
hot ;  "  his  patience  was  exhausted  by  these  continual  vexations 
about  his  estate.  The  stubborn  refusal  of  Glaus  Hopper  seemed 
to  him  like  flat  rebellion  ;  his  temper  suddenly  boiled  over,  and 
Glaus  was  glad  to  make  a  rapid  retreat  to  escape  scalding. 

When  the  bumpkin  got  to  the  housekeeper's  room,  he  found 
Peter  de  Groodt,  and  several  other  true  believers,  ready  to 
receive  him.  Here  he  indemnified  himself  for  the  restraint  he 
had  suffered  in  the  study,  and  opened  a  budget  of  stories  about 
the  haunted  house  that  astonished  all  his  hearers.  The  house- 
keeper believed  them  all,  if  it  was  only  to  spite  the  doctor  for 
having  received  her  intelligence  so  uncourteously.  Peter  de 
Groodt  matched  them  with  many  a  wonderful  legend  of  the 
times  of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  and  of  the  Devil's  Stepping-stones  ; 
and  of  the  pirate  hanged  at  Gibbet  Island,  that  continued 
to  swing  there  at  night  long  after  the  gallows  was  taken 
down ;  and  of  the  ghost  of  the  unfortunate  Governor  Leisler, 
hanged  for  treason,  which  haunted  the  old  fort  and  the  gov- 
ernment house.  The  gossiping  knot  dispersed,  each  charged 
with  direful  intelligence.  The  sexton  disburdened  himself 
at  a  vestry  meeting  that  was  held  that  very  day,  and  the 
black  cook  forsook  her  kitchen,  and  spent  half  the  day  at  the 
street  pump,  that  gossiping  place  of  servants,  dealing  forth  the 
news  to  all  that  came  for  water.  In  a  little  time,  the  whole 
town  was  in  a  buzz  with  tales  about  the  haunted  house.  Some 
said  that  Glaus  Hopper  had  seen  the  devil,  while  others  hinted 
that  the  house  was  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  some  of  the 
patients  whom  the  doctor  had  physicked  out  of  the  world,  and 
that  was  the  reason  why  he  did  not  venture  to  live  in  it  him- 
self. 

All  this  put  the  little  doctor  in  a  terrible  fume.  He  threat- 
ened vengeance  on  any  one  who  should  affect  the  value  of  his 
property  by  exciting  popular  prejudices.  He  complained 
loudly  of  thus  being  in  a  manner  dispossessed  of  his  territories 
by  mere  bugbears ;  but  he  secretly  determined  to  have  the 
house  exorcised  by  the  Dominie.  Great  was  his  relief,  there- 
fore, when,  in  the  midst  of  his  perplexities,  Dolph  stepped 
forward  and  undertook  to  garrison  the  haunted  house.  The 
youngster  had  been  listening  to  all  the  stories  of  Glaus  Hopper 
and  Peter  de  Groodt :  he  was  fond  of  adventure,  he  loved  the 
marvellous,  and  his  imagination  had  become  quite  excited  by 


250  &RACEBRIDGE   HALL. 

these  tales  of  wonder.  Besides,  he  had  led  such  an  uncomfort- 
able life  at  the  doctor's,  being  subjected  to  the  intolerable 
thraldom  of  early  hours,  that  he  was  delighted  at  the  prospect 
of  having  a  house  to  himself,  even  though  it  should  be  a 
haunted  one.  His  offer  was  eagerly  accepted,  and  it  was  de- 
termined that  he  should  mount  guard  that  very  night.  His 
only  stipulation  was,  that  the  enterprise  should  be  kept  secret 
from  his  mother  ;  for  he  knew  the  poor  soul  would  not  sleep  a 
wink,  if  she  knew  her  son  was  waging  war  with  the  powers  of 
darkness. 

When  night  came  on,  he  set  out  on  this  perilous  expedition. 
The  old  black  cook,  his  only  friend  in  the  household,  had  pro- 
vided him  with  a  little  mess  for  supper,  and  a  rushlight ;  and 
she  tied  round  his  neck  an  amulet,  given  her  by  an  African 
conjurer,  as  a  charm  against  evil  spirits.  Dolph  was  escorted 
on  his  way  by  the  doctor  and  Peter  de  Groodt,  who  had  agreed 
to  accompany  him  to  the  house,  and  to  see  him  safe  lodged. 
The  night  was  overcast,  and  it  was  very  dark  when  they 
arrived  at  the  grounds  which  surrounded  the  mansion.  The 
sexton  led  the  way  with  a  lantern.  As  they  walked  along  the 
avenue  of  acacias,  the  fitful  light,  catching  from  bush  to  bush, 
and  tree  to  tree,  often  startled  the  doughty  Peter,  and  made 
him  fall  back  upon  his  followers  ;  and  the  doctor  grappled  still 
closer  hold  of  Dolph's  arm,  observing  that  the  ground  was 
very  slippery  and  uneven.  At  one  time  they  were  nearly  put 
to  total  rout  by  a  bat,  which  came  flitting  about  the  lantern ; 
and  the  notes  of  the  insects  from  the  trees,  and  the  frogs  from 
a  neighboring  pond,  formed  a  most  drowsy  and  doleful  concert. 

The  front  door  of  the  mansion  opened  with  a  grating  sound, 
that  made  the  doctor  turn  pale.  They  entered  a  tolerably 
large  hall,  such  as  is  common  in  American  country-houses, 
and  which  serves  for  a  sitting-room  in  warm  weather.  From 
this  they  went  up  a  wide  staircase,  that  groaned  and  creaked 
as  they  trod,  every  step  making  its  particular  note,  like  the 
key  of  a  harpsichord.  This  led  to  another  hall  on  the  second 
story,  whence  they  entered  the  room  where  Dolph  was  to 
sleep.  It  was  large,  and  scantily  furnished  ;  the  shutters  were 
closed ;  but  as  they  were  much  broken,  there  was  no  want  of 
a  circulation  of  air.  It  appeared  to  have  been  that  sacred 
chamber,  known  among  Dutch  housewives  by  the  name  of 
"  the  best  bed-room  ; "  which  is  the  best  furnished  room  in  the 
house,  but  in  which  scarce  anybody  is  ever  permitted  to  sleep. 
Its  splendor,  however,  was  all  at  an  end.  There  were  a  few 
broken  articles  of  furniture  about  the  room,  and  in  the  centre 


DOLPU   HEYLIGER.  261 

stood  a  heavy  deal  tablo  and  a  large  arm-chair,  both  of  which 
had  the  look  of  being  coeval  with  the  mansion.  The  fireplace 
was  wide,  and  had  been  faced  with  Dutch  tiles,  representing 
Scripture  stories ;  but  some  of  them  had  fallen  out  of  their 
places,  and  lay  shattered  about  the  hearth.  The  sexton  lit  the 
rushlight ;  and  the  doctor,  looking  fearfully  about  the  room, 
was  just  exhorting  Dolph  to  be  of  good  cheer,  and  to  pluck  up 
a  stout  heart,  wiieu  a  noise  in  the  chimney,  like  voices  and 
struggling,  struck  a  sudden  panic  into  the  sexton.  lie  took  to 
his  heels  with  the  lantern ;  the  doctor  followed  hard  after  him  ; 
the  stairs  groaned  and  creaked  as  they  hurried  down,  increasing 
their  agitation  and  speed  l>y  its  noises.  The  front  door  slammed 
after  them  ;  and  Dolph  heard  them  scrabbling  down  the  avenue, 
till  the  sound  of  their  feet  was  lost  in  the  distance.  That  he 
did  not  join  in  this  precipitate  retreat,  might  have  been  owing  to 
his  possessing  a  liUle  more  courage  than  his  companions,  or 
perhaps  that  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  cause  of  their  dis- 
may, in  a  nest  of  chimney  swallows,  that  came  tumbling  down 
into  the  fireplace. 

Being  now  left  to  himself,  he  secured  the  front  door  by  a 
strong  bolt  and  bar ;  and  having  seen  that  the  other  entrances 
were  fastened,  returned  to  his  desolate  chamber.  Having  made 
his  supper  from  the  basket  which  the  good  old  cook  had  pro- 
vided, he  locked  the  chamber  door,  and  retired  to  rest  on  a 
mattress  in  one  corner.  The  night  was  calm  and  still ;  and 
nothing  broke  upon  the  profound  quiet  but  the  lonely  chirping 
of  a  cricket  from  the  chimney  of  a  distant  chamber.  The  rush- 
light, which  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  deal  table,  shed  a  feeble 
yellow  ray,  dimly  illumining  the  chamber,  and  making  uncouth 
shapes  and  shadows  on  the  walls,  from  the  clothes  which  Dolpb 
had  thrown  over  a  chair. 

With  all  his  boldness  of  heart,  there  was  something  subduing 
in  this  desolate  scene ;  and  he  felt  his  spirits  flag  within  him, 
as  he  lay  on  his  hard  bed  and  gazed  about  the  room.  He  was 
turning  over  in  his  mind  his  idle  habits,  his  doubtful  prospects, 
and  now  and  then  heaving  a  heavy  sigh,  as  he  thought  on  his 
poor  old  mother  ;  for  there  is  nothing  like  the  silence  and  lone- 
liness of  night  to  bring  dark  shadows  over  the  brightest  mind. 
By  and  by,  he  thought  he  heard  a  sound  as  of  some  one  walking 
below  stairs.  He  listened,  and  distinctly  heard  a  step  on  the 
great  staircase.  It  approached  solemnly  and  slowly,  tramp  — 
tramp — tramp!  It  was  evidently  the  tread  of  some  heavy 
personage  ;  and  yet  how  could  he  have  got  into  the  house  without 
making  a  noise?  He  had  examined  all  the  fastenings,  and 


262  BEACEBEIDGE   HALL. 

was  certain  that  every  entrance  was  secure.  Still  the  stepa 
advanced,  tramp  —  tramp  —  tramp!  It  was  evident  that  the 
person  approaching  could  not  be  a  robber —  the  step  was  too 
loud  and  deliberate  ;  a  robber  would  either  be  stealthy  or  pre- 
cipitate. And  now  the  footsteps  had  ascended  the  staircase ; 
they  were  slowly  advancing  along  the  passage,  resounding 
through  the  silent  and  empty  apartments.  The  very  cricket 
had  ceased  its  melancholy  note,  and  nothing  interrupted  their 
awful  distinctness.  The  door,  which  had  been  locked  on  the 
inside,  slowly  swung  open,  as  if  self-moved.  The  footsteps 
entered  the  room ;  but  no  one  was  to  be  seen.  They  passed 
slowly  and  audibly  across  it,  tramp  —  tramp  —  tramp!  but 
whatever  made  the  sound  was  invisible.  Dolph  rubbed  his 
eyes,  and  stared  about  him  ;  he  could  see  to  every  part  of  the 
dimly-lighted  chamber ;  all  was  vacant ;  yet  still  he  heard 
those  mysterious  footsteps,  solemnly  walking  about  the  cham- 
ber. The}'-  ceased,  and  all  was  dead  silence.  There  was  some- 
thing more  appalling  in  this  invisible  visitation,  than  there 
would  have  been  in  any  thing  that  addressed  itself  to  the  eye- 
sight. It  was  awfully  vague  and  indefinite.  He  felt  his  heart 
beat  against  his  ribs ;  a  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  his  forehead ; 
he  lay  for  some  time  in  a  state  of  violent  agitation ;  nothing, 
however,  occurred  to  increase  his  alarm.  His  light  gradually 
burnt  down  into  the  socket,  and  he  fell  asleep.  When  he 
awoke  it  was  broad  daylight ;  the  sun  was  peering  through  the 
cracks  of  the  window-shutters,  and  the  birds  were  merrily 
singing  about  the  house.  The  bright,  cheery  day  soon  put  to 
flight  all  the  terrors  of  the  preceding  night.  Dolph  laughed, 
or  rather  tried  to  laugh,  at  all  that  had  passed,  and  endeavored 
to  persuade  himself  that  it  was  a  mere  freak  of  the  imagination, 
conjured  up  by  the  stories  he  had  heard ;  but  he  was  a  little 
puzzled  to  find  the  door  of  his  room  locked  on  the  inside,  not- 
withstanding that  he  had  positively  seen  it  swing  open  as  the 
footsteps  had  entered.  He  returned  to  town  in  a  state  of  con- 
siderable perplexity ;  but  he  determined  to  say  nothing  on  the 
subject,  until  his  doubts  were  either  confirmed  or  removed  by  an- 
other night's  watching.  His  silence  was  a  grievous  disappoint- 
ment to  the  gossips  who  had  gathered  at  the  doctor's  mansion. 
They  had  prepared  their  minds  to  hear  direful  tales,  and  were 
almost  in  a  rage  at  being  assured  he  had  nothing  to  relate. 

The  next  night,  then,  Dolph  repeated  his  vigil.  He  now 
entered  the  house  with  some  trepidation.  He  was  particular  in 
examining  the  fastenings  of  all  the  doors,  and  securing  them 
well.  He  locked  the  door  of  his  chamber  and  placed  a  chair 


DOLPH   REYLIGEB.  263 

against  it;  then,  having  despatched  his  supper,  he  threw  him- 
self on  his  mattress  and  endeavored  to  sleep.  It  was  all  in 
vain  —  a  thousand  crowding  fancies  kept  him  waking.  The 
time  slowly  dragged  on,  as  if  minutes  were  spinning  themselves 
out  into  hours.  As  the  night  advanced,  he  grew  more  and 
more  nervous ;  and  he  almost  started  from  his  couch,  when  he 
heard  the  mysterious  footstep  again  on  the  staircase.  Up  it 
came,  as  before,  solemnly  and  slowly,  tramp  —  tramp  —  tramp ! 
It  approached  along  the  passage ;  the  door  again  swung  open, 
as  if  there  had  been  neither  lock  nor  impediment,  and  a  strange- 
looking  figure  stalked  into  the  room.  It  was  an  elderly  man, 
large  and  robust,  clothed  in  the  old  Flemish  fashion.  He  had 
on  a  kind  of  short  cloak,  with  a  garment  under  it,  belted  round 
the  waist ;  trunk  hose,  with  great  bunches  or  bows  at  the  knees ; 
and  a  pair  of  russet  boots,  very  large  at  top,  and  standing 
widely  from  his  legs.  His  hat  was  broad  and  slouched,  with  a 
feather  trailing  over  one  side.  His  iron-gray  hair  hung  in  thick 
masses  on  his  neck ;  and  he  had  a  short  grizzled  beard.  He 
walked  slowly  round  the  room,  as  if  examining  that  all  was 
safe;  then,  hanging  his  hat  on  a  peg  beside  the  door,  he  sat 
down  in  the  elbow-chair,  and,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  table, 
fixed  his  eyes  on  Dolph  with  an  unmoving  and  deadening  stare. 
Dolph  was  not  naturally  a  coward  ;  but  he  had  been  brought 
up  in  an  implicit  belief  in  ghosts  and  goblins.  A  thousand 
stories  came  swarming  to  his  mind,  that  he  had  heard  about  this 
building ;  and  as  he  looked  at  this  strange  personage,  with  his 
uncouth  garb,  his  pale  visage,  his  grizzly  beard,  and  his  fixed, 
staring,  fish-like  eye,  his  teeth  began  to  chatter,  his  hair  to  rise 
on  his  head,  and  a  cold  sweat  to  break  out  all  over  his  body. 
How  long  he  remained  in  this  situation  he  could  not  tell,  for  he 
was  like  one  fascinated.  He  could  not  take  his  gaze  off  from 
the  spectre  ;  but  lay  staring  at  him  with  his  whole  intellect  ab- 
sorbed in  the  contemplation.  The  old  man  remained  seated 
behind  the  table,  without  stirring  or  turning  an  eye,  always 
keeping  a  dead  steady  glare  upon  Dolph.  At  length  the  house- 
hold cock  from  a  neighboring  farm  clapped  his  wings,  and  gave 
a  loud  cheerful  crow  that  rung  over  the  fields.  At  the  sound, 
the  old  man  slowly  rose  and  took  down  his  hat  from  the  peg ; 
the  door  opened  and  closed  after  him  ;  he  was  heard  to  go  slowly 
down  the  staircase  —  tramp  —  tramp  —  tramp  !  —  and  when  he 
had  got  to  the  bottom,  all  was  again  silent.  Dolph  lay  and  lis- 
tened earnestly  ;  counted  every  footfall ;  listened  and  listened  if 
the  steps  should  return  —  until,  exhausted  by  watching  and  agi- 
tation, he  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep. 


264  BBACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

Daylight  again  brought  fresh  courage  and  assurance.  He 
would  fain  have  considered  all  that  had  passed  as  a  mere  dream  ; 
yet  there  stood  the  chair  in  which  the  unknown  had  seated  him- 
self ;  there  was  the  table  on  which  he  had  leaned  ;  there  was  the 
peg  on  which  he  had  hung  his  hat ;  and  there  was  the  door, 
locked  precisely  as  he  himself  had  locked  it,  with  the  chair 
placed  against  it.  He  hastened  down-stairs  and  examined  the 
doors  and  windows ;  all  were  exactly  in  the  same  state  in  which 
he  had  left  them,  and  there  was  no  apparent  way  by  which  any 
being  could  have  entered  and  left  the  house  without  leaving 
some  trace  behind.  "  Pooh  !  "  said  Dolph  to  himself,  "  it  was 
all  a  dream  ;  "  —  but  it  would  not  do  ;  the  more  he  endeavored 
to  shake  the  scene  off  from  his  mind,  the  more  it  haunted  him. 

Though  he  persisted  in  a  strict  silence  as  to  all  that  he  had 
seen  or  heard,  yet  his  looks  betrayed  the  uncomfortable  night 
that  he  had  passed.  It  was  evident  that  there  was  something 
wonderful  hidden  under  this  mysterious  reserve.  The  doctor 
took  him  into  the  study,  locked  the  door,  and  sought  to  have  a 
full  and  confidential  communication  ;  but  he  could  get  nothing 
out  of  him.  Frau  Ilsy  took  him  aside  into  the  pantry,  but  to  as 
little  purpose ;  and  Peter  de  Groodt  held  him  b}'  the  button  for 
a  full  hour  in  the  church-yard,  the  very  place  to  get  at  the 
bottom  of  a  ghost  story,  but  came  off  not  a  whit  wiser  than  the 
rest.  It  is  always  the  case,  however,  that  one  truth  concealed 
makes  a  dozen  current  lies.  It  is  like  a  guinea  locked  up  in  a 
bank,  that  has  a  dozen  paper  representatives.  Before  the  day 
was  over,  the  neighborhood  was  full  of  reports.  Some  said  that 
Dolph  Heyliger  watched  in  the  haunted  house  with  pistols  loaded 
with  silver  bullets ;  others,  that  he  had  a  long  talk  with  the 
spectre  without  a  head ;  others,  that  Dr.  Kuipperhausen  and 
the  sexton  had  been  hunted  down  the  Bowery  lane,  and  quite 
into  town,  by  a  legion  of  ghosts  of  their  customers.  Some 
shook  their  heads,  and  thought  it  a  shame  the  doctor  should 
put  Dolph  to  pass  the  night  alone  in  that  dismal  house,  where 
he  might  be  spirited  away,  no  one  knew  whither ;  while  others 
observed,  with  a  shrug,  that  if  the  devil  did  carry  off  the  young- 
ster, it  would  be  but  taking  his  own. 

These  rumors  at  length  reached  the  ears  of  the  good  Dame 
Heyliger,  and,  as  may  be  supposed,  threw  her  into  a  terrible 
alarm.  For  her  son  to  have  opposed  himself  to  danger  from 
living  foes,  would  have  been  nothing  so  dreadful  in  her  eyes  as 
to  dare  alone  the  terrors  of  the  haunted  house.  She  hastened 
to  the  doctor's,  and  passed  a  great  part  of  the  day  in  attempt- 
ing to  dissuade  Dolph  from  repeating  his  vigil ;  she  told  him  a 


DOLPH  HEYLIGEB.  265 

score  of  tales,  which  her  gossiping  friends  had  just  related  to 
her,  of  persons  who  had  been  carried  off  when  watching  alone 
in  old  ruinous  houses.  It  was  all  to  no  effect.  Dolph's  pride, 
as  well  as  curiosity,  was  piqued.  He  endeavored  to  calm  the 
apprehensions  of  his  mother,  and  to  assure  her  that  there  was 
no  truth  in  all  the  rumors  she  had  heard ;  she  looked  at  him 
dubiously,  and  shook  her  head ;  but  finding  his  determination 
was  not  to  be  shaken,  she  brought  him  a  little  thick  Dutch 
Bible,  with  brass  clasps,  to  take  with  him,  as  a  sword  where- 
with to  fight  the  powers  of  darkness ;  and,  lest  that  might  not 
be  sufficient,  the  housekeeper  gave  bun  the  Heidelberg  cate- 
chism by  way  of  dagger. 

The  next  night,  therefore,  Dolph  took  up  his  quarters  for 
the  third  time  in  the  old  mansion.  Whether  dream  or  not,  the 
same  thing  was  repeated.  Towards  midnight,  when  every  thing 
was  still,  the  same  sound  echoed  through  the  empty  halls  — 
tramp  —  tramp  —  tramp  !  The  stairs  were  again  ascended  ; 
the  door  again  swung  open ;  the  old  man  entered,  walked  round 
the  room,  hung  up  his  hat,  and  seated  himself  by  the  table. 
The  same  fear  and  trembling  came  over  poor  Dolph,  though 
not  in  so  violent  a  degree.  He  lay  in  the  same  way,  motion- 
less and  fascinated,  staring  at  the  figure,  which  regarded  him,  as 
before,  with  a  dead,  fixed,  chilling  gaze.  In  this  way  they  re- 
mained for  a  long  time,  till,  by  degrees,  Dolph's  courage  began 
gradually  to  revive.  Whether  alive  or  dead,  this  being  had 
certainly  some  object  in  his  visitation;  and  he  recollected  to 
have  heard  it  said,  spirits  have  no  power  to  speak  until  spoken 
to.  Summoning  up  resolution,  therefore,  and  making  two  or 
three  attempts  before  he  could  get  his  parched  tongue  in  motion, 
he  addressed  the  unknown  in  the  most  solemn  form  of  adju- 
ration, and  demanded  to  know  what  was  the  motive  of  his 
visit. 

No  sooner  had  he  finished,  than  the  old  man  rose,  took  down 
his  hat,  the  door  opened,  and  he  went  out,  looking  back  upon 
Dolph  just  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  as  if  expecting  him  to 
follow.  The  youngster  did  not  hesitate  an  instant.  He  took 
the  candle  in  his  hand,  and  the  Bible  under  his  arm,  and  obeyed 
the  tacit  invitation.  The  candle  emitted  a  feeble,  uncertain 
ray  ;  but  still  he  could  see  the  figure  before  him,  slowly  descend 
the  stairs.  He  followed,  trembling.  When  it  had  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs,  it  turned  througn  the  hall  towards  the 
back  door  of  the  mansion.  Dolph  held  the  light  over  the  bal- 
ustrades ;  but,  in  his  eagerness  to  catch  a  sight  of  the  unknown, 
he  flared  his  feeble  taper  so  suddenly,  that  it  went  out.  Still 


266  BBACEBEIDGE   HALL. 

there  was  sufficient  light  from  the  pale  moonbeams,  that  fell 
through  a  narrow  window,  to  give  him  an  indistinct  view  of  the 
figure,  near  the  door.  He  followed,  therefore,  down-stairs,  and 
turned  towards  the  place ;  but  when  he  arrived  there,  the  un- 
known had  disappeared.  The  door  remained  fast  barred  and 
bolted ;  there  was  no  other  mode  of  exit ;  yet  the  being,  what- 
ever he  might  be,  was  gone.  He  unfastened  the  door,  and 
looked  out  into  the  fields.  It  was  a  hazy,  moonlight  night,  so 
that  the  eye  could  distinguish  objects  at  some  distance.  He 
thought  he  saw  the  unknown  in  a  footpath  which  led  from  the 
door.  He  was  not  mistaken ;  but  how  had  he  got  out  of  the 
house?  He  did  not  pause  to  think,  but  followed  on.  The  old 
man  proceeded  at  a  measured  pace,  without  looking  about  him, 
his  footsteps  sounding  on  the  hard  ground.  He  passed  through 
the  orchard  of  apple-trees,  always  keeping  the  footpath.  It  led 
to  a  well,  situated  in  a  little  hollow,  which  had  supplied  the 
farm  with  water.  Just  at  this  well,  Dolph  lost  sight  of  him. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  looked  again  ;  but  nothing  was  to  be 
seen  of  the  unknown.  He  reached  the  well,  but  nobody  was 
there.  All  the  surrounding  ground  was  open  and  clear ;  there 
was  no  bush  nor  hiding-place.  He  looked  down  the  well,  and 
saw,  at  a  great  depth,  the  reflection  of  the  sky  in  the  still  water. 
After  remaining  here  for  some  time,  without  seeing  or  hearing 
any  thing  more  of  his  mysterious  conductor,  he  returned  to  the 
house,  full  of  awe  and  wonder.  He  bolted  the  door,  groped  his 
way  back  to  bed,  and  it  was  long  before  he  could  compose  him- 
self to  sleep. 

His  dreams  were  strange  and  troubled.  He  thought  he  was 
following  the  old  mail  along  the  side  of  a  great  river,  until  they 
came  to  a  vessel  or»  the  point  of  sailing  ;  and  that  his  conductor 
led  him  on  board  and  vanished.  He  remembered  the  com- 
mander of  the  vessel,  a  short  swarthy  man,  with  crisped  black 
hair,  blind  of  one  eye,  and  lame  of  one  leg  ;  but  the  rest  of  his 
dream  was  very  confused.  Sometimes  he  was  sailing ;  some- 
times on  shore ;  now  amidst  storms  and  tempests,  and  now 
wandering  quietly  in  unknown  streets.  The  figure  of  the  old 
man  was  strangely  mingled  up  with  the  incidents  of  the  dream ; 
and  the  whole  distinctly  wound  up  by  his  finding  himself  on 
board  of  the  vessel  again,  returning  home,  with  a  great  bag  of 
money ! 

When  he  woke,  the  gray,  cool  light  of  dawn  was  streaking 
the  horizon,  and  the  cocks  passing  the  reveille  from  farm  to  farm 
throughout  the  country.  He  rose  more  harassed  and  perplexed 
than  ever.  He  was  singularly  confounded  by  all  that  he  had 


DOLPS  HEYLIGEK.  267 

seen  and  dreamt,  and  began  to  doubt  whether  his  mind  was  not 
affected,  and  whether  all  that  was  passing  in  his  thoughts  might 
not  be  mere  feverish  fantasy.  In  his  present  state  of  mind, 
he  did  not  feel  disposed  to  return  immediately  to  the  doctor's, 
and  undergo  the  cross-questioning  of  the  household.  He  made 
a  scanty  breakfast,  therefore,  on  the  remains  of  the  last  night's 
provisions,  and  then  wandered  out  into  the  fields  to  meditate  on 
all  that  had  befallen  him.  Lost  in  thought,  he  rambled  about, 
gradually  approaching  the  town,  until  the  morning  was  far 
advanced,  when  he  was  roused  by  a  hurry  and  bustle  around 
him.  He  found  himself  near  the  water's  edge,  in  a  throng  of 
people,  hurrying  to  a,  pier,  where  was  a  vessel  ready  to  make 
Sail.  He  was  unconsciously  carried  along  by  the  impulse 
of  the  crowd,  and  found  that  it  was  a  sloop,  on  the  point  of 
sailing  up  the  Hudson  to  Albany.  There  was  much  leave-taking 
and  kissing  of  old  women  and  children,  and  great  activity  in 
carrying  on  board  baskets  of  bread  and  cakes,  and  provisions 
of  all  kinds,  notwithstanding  the  mighty  joints  of  meat  that 
dangled  over  the  stern  ;  for  a  voyage  to  Albany  was  an  expe- 
dition of  great  moment  in  those  days.  The  commander  of  the 
sloop  was  hurrying  about,  and  giving  a  world  of  orders,  which 
were  not  very  strictly  attended  to ;  one  man  being  busy  in 
lighting  his  pipe,  and  another  in  sharpening  his  snicker-snee. 

The  appearance  of  the  commander  suddenly  caught  Dolph's 
attention.  He  was  short  and  swarthy,  with  crisped  black  hair ; 
blind  of  one  eye,  and  lame  of  one  leg  —  the  very  commander 
that  he  had  seen  in  his  dream !  Surprised  and  aroused,  he 
•considered  the  scene  more  attentively,  and  recalled  still  further 
traces  of  his  dream  :  the  appearance  of  the  vessel,  of  the  river, 
and  of  a  variety  of  other  objects,  accorded  with  the  imperfect 
images  vaguely  rising  to  recollection. 

As  he  stood  musing  on  these  circumstances,  the  captain 
suddenly  called  out  to  him  in  Dutch,  "  Step  on  board,  young 
man,  or  you'll  be  left  behind !  "  He  was  startled  by  the  sum- 
mons ;  he  saw  that  the  sloop  was  cast  loose,  and  was  actually 
moving  from  the  pier ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  was  actuated  by  some 
irresistible  impulse ;  he  sprang  upon  the  deck,  and  the  next 
moment  the  sloop  was  hurried  off  by  the  wind  and  tide. 
Dolph's  thoughts  and  feelings  were  all  in  tumult  and  con- 
fusion. He  had  been  strongly  worked  upon  by  the  events 
that  had  recently  befallen  him,  and  could  not  but  think  there 
was  some  connection  between  his  present  situation  and  his 
last  night's  dream.  He  felt  as  if  under  supernatural  influ- 
ence ;  and  tried  to  assure  himself  with  an  old  and  favorite 


268  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

maxim  of  his,  that  "  one  way  or  other,  all  would  turn  out  for 
the  best."  For  a  moment,  the  indignation  of  the  doctor  at  his 
departure  without  leave,  passed  across  his  mind  —  but  that  was 
matter  of  little  moment.  Then  he  thought  of  the  distress  of 
his  mother  at  his  strange  disappearance,  and  the  idea  gave  him 
a  sudden  pang ;  he  would  have  entreated  to  be  put  on  shore ; 
but  he  knew  with  such  wind  and  tide  the  entreaty  would  have 
been  in  vain.  Then,  the  inspiring  love  of  novelty  and  adven- 
ture came  rushing  in  full  tide  through  his  bosom ;  he  felt  himself 
launched  strangely  and  suddenly  on  the  world,  and  under  full 
way  to  explore  the  regions  of  wonder  that  lay  up  this  mighty 
river,  and  beyond  those  blue  mountains  which  had  bounded  his 
horizon  since  childhood.  "While  he  was  lost  in  this  whirl  of 
thought,  the  sails  strained  to  the  breeze ;  the  shores  seemed  to 
hurry  away  behind  him ;  and,  before  he  perfectly  recovered  his 
self-possession,  the  sloop  was  ploughing  her  way  past  Spiking- 
devil  and  Yonkers,  and  the  tallest  chimney  of  the  Mnnhattoes 
had  faded  from  his  sight. 

I  have  said,  that  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  in  those  days  was 
an  undertaking  of  some  moment ;  indeed,  it  was  as  much 
thought  of  as  a  voyage  to  Europe  is  at  present.  The  sloops 
were  often  many  days  on  the  way ;  the  cautious  navigators 
taking  in  sail  when  it  blew  fresh,  and  coming  to  anchor  at  night ; 
and  stopping  to  send  the  boat  ashore  for  milk  for  tea,  without 
which  it  was  impossible  for  the  worthy  old  lady  passengers  to 
subsist.  And  there  were  the  much-talked-of  perils  of  the 
Tappaan  Zee,  and  the  highlands.  In  short,  a  prudent  Dutch 
burgher  would  talk  of  such  a  voyage  for  months,  and  even 
years,  beforehand  ;  and  never  undertook  it  without  putting  his 
affairs  in  order,  making  his  will,  and  having  prayers  said  for 
him  in  the  Low  Dutch  churches. 

In  the  course  of  such  a  voyage,  therefore,  Dolph  was  satisfied 
he  would  have  time  enough  to  reflect,  and  to  make  up  his  mind 
as  to  what  he  should  do  when  he  arrived  at  Albany.  The  cap- 
tain, with  his  blind  eye  and  lame  leg,  would,  it  is  true,  bring 
his  strange  dream  to  mind,  and  perplex  him  sadly  for  a  few 
moments ;  but,  of  late,  his  life  had  been  made  up  so  much  of 
dreams  and  realities,  his  nights  and  days  had  been  so  jumbled 
together,  that  he  seemed  to  be  moving  continually  in  a  delusion. 
There  is  always,  however,  a  kind  of  vagabond  consolation  in  a 
man's  having  nothing  in  this  world  to  lose ;  with  this  Dolph 
comforted  his  heart,  and  determined  to  make  the  most  of  the 
present  enjoyment. 

In  the  second  day  of  the  voyage  they  came  to  the  highlands. 


DOLPH  EEYLIGEB.  269 

It  was  the  latter  part  of  a  calm,  sultry  day,  that  they  floated 
gently  with  the  tide  between  these  stern  mountains.  There 
was  that  perfect  quiet  which  prevails  over  nature  in  the  languor 
of  summer  heat ;  the  turning  of  a  plank,  or  the  accidental  fall- 
ing of  an  oar  on  deck,  was  echoed  from  the  mountain  side  and 
reverberated  along  the  shores ;  and  if  by  chance  the  captain 
gave  a  shout  of  command,  there  were  airy  tongues  which  mocked 
it  from  every  cliff. 

Dolph  gazed  about  him  in  mute  delight  and  wonder,  at  these 
scenes  of  nature's  magnificence.  To  the  left  the  Dunderberg 
reared  its  woody  precipices,  height  over  height,  forest  over 
forest,  away  into  the  deep  summer  sky.  To  the  right  strutted 
forth  the  bold  promontory  of  Antony's  Nose,  with  a  solitary 
eagle  wheeling  about  it ;  while  beyond,  mountain  succeeded 
to  mountain,  until  they  seemed  to  lock  their  arms  together, 
and  confine  this  mighty  river  in  their  embraces.  There  was 
a  feeling  of  quiet  luxury  in  gazing  at  the  broad,  green  bos- 
oms here  and  there  scooped  out  among  the  precipices ;  or 
at  woodlands  high  in  air,  nodding  over  the  edge  of  some 
beetling  bluff,  and  their  foliage  all  transparent  in  the  yellow 
sunshine. 

In  the  midst  of  his  admiration,  Dolph  remarked  a  pile  of 
bright,  snowy  clouds  peering  above  the  western  heights.  It 
was  succeeded  by  another,  and  another,  each  seemingly  pushing 
onwards  its  predecessor,  and  towering,  with  dazzling  brilliancy, 
in  the  deep-blue  atmosphere :  and  now  muttering  peals  of  thun- 
der were  faintly  heard  rolling  behind  the  mountains.  The  river, 
hitherto  still  and  glassy,  reflecting  pictures  of  the  sky  and  land, 
now  showed  a  dark  ripple  at  a  distance,  as  the  breeze  came 
creeping  up  it.  The  fish-hawks  wheeled  and  screamed,  and 
sought  their  nests  on  the  high  dry  trees ;  the  crows  flew  clam- 
orously to  the  crevices  of  the  rocks,  and  all  nature  seemed  con- 
scious of  the  approaching  thunder-gust. 

The  clouds  now  rolled  in  volumes  over  the  mountain  tops ; 
their  summits  still  bright  and  snowy,  but  the  lower  pails  of  an 
inky  blackness.  The  rain  began  to  patter  down  in  broad  and 
scattered  drops  ;  the  wind  freshened,  and  curled  up  the  waves ; 
at  length  it  seemed  as  if  the  bellying  clouds  were  torn  open  by 
the  mountain  tops,  and  complete  torrents  of  rain  came  rattling 
down.  The  lightning  leaped  from  cloud  to  cloud,  and  streamed 
quivering  against  the  rocks,  splitting  and  rending  the  stoutest 
forest  trees.  The  thunder  burst  in  tremendous  explosions  ;  the 
peals  were  echoed  from  mountain  to  mountain  ;  they  crashed 
upon  Duuderberg,  and  rolled  up  the  long  defile  of  the  high- 


270  £BACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

lands,  each  headland  making  a  new  echo,  until  old  Bull  hill 
seemed  to  bellow  back  the  storm. 

For  a  time  the  scudding  rack  and  mist,  and  the  sheeted  rain, 
almost  hid  the  landscape  from  the  sight.  There  was  a  fearful 
gloom,  illumined  still  more  fearfully  by  the  streams  of  lightning 
which  glittered  among  the  rain-drops.  Never  had  Dolph  beheld 
such  an  absolute  warring  of  the  elements :  it  seemed  as  if  the 
storm  was  tearing  and  rending  its  way  through  this  mountain 
defile,  and  had  brought  all  the  artillery  of  heaven  into  action. 

The  vessel  was  hurried  on  by  the  increasing  wind,  until  she 
came  to  where  the  river  makes  a  sudden  bend,  the  only  one  in 
the  whole  course  of  its  majestic  career.1  Just  as  they  turned 
the  point,  a  violent  flaw  of  wind  came  sweeping  down  a  moun- 
tain gully,  bending  the  forest  before  it,  and,  in  a  moment,  lash- 
ing up  the  river  into  white  froth  and  foam.  The  captain  saw 
the  danger,  and  cried  out  to  lower  the  sail.  Before  the  order 
could  be  obeyed,  the  flaw  struck  the  sloop,  and  threw  her  on 
her  beam-ends.  Every  thing  now  was  fright  and  confusion  :  the 
flapping  of  the  sails,  the  whistling  and  rushing  of  the  wind,  the 
bawling  of  the  captain  and  crew,  the  shrieking  of  the  passen- 
gers, all  mingled  with  the  rolling  and  bellowing  of  the  thunder. 
In  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  the  sloop  righted ;  at  the  same  time 
the  mainsail  shifted,  the  boom  came  sweeping  the  quarter-deck, 
and  Dolph,  who  was  gazing  unguardedly  at  the  clouds,  found 
himself,  in  a  moment,  floundering  in  the  river. 

For  once  in  his  life,  one  of  his  idle  accomplishments  was  of 
use  to  him.  The  many  truant  hours  he  had  devoted  to  sport- 
ing in  the  Hudson,  had  made  him  an  expert  swimmer;  yet, 
with  all  his  strength  and  skill,  he  found  great  difficulty  in  reach- 
ing the  shore.  His  disappearance  from  the  deck  had  not  been 
noticed  by  the  crew,  who  were  all  occupied  by  their  own  danger. 
The  sloop  was  driven  along  with  inconceivable  rapidity.  She 
had  hard  work  to  weather  a  long  promontory  on  the  eastern 
shore,  round  which  the  river  turned,  and  which  completely  shut 
her  from  Dolph's  view. 

It  was  on  a  point  of  the  western  shore  that  he  landed,  and, 
scrambling  up  the  rocks,  threw  himself,  faint  and  exhausted, 
at  the  foot  of  a  tree.  By  degrees,  the  thunder-gust  passed 
over.  The  clouds  rolled  away  to  the  east,  where  they  lay  piled 
in  feathery  masses,  tinted  with  the  last  rosy  rays  of  the  sun. 
The  distant  play  of  the  lightning  might  be  seen  about  the  dark 
bases,  and  now  and  then  might  be  heard  the  faint  muttering  of 

1  This  must  have  been  the  bend  at  West-Point. 


DOLPU  BEYLlGEft.  271 

the  thunder.  Dolph  rose,  and  sought  about  to  see  if  any  path 
led  from  the  shore ;  but  all  was  savage  and  trackless.  The 
rocks  were  piled  upon  each  other ;  great  trunks  of  trees  lay 
shattered  about,  as  they  had  been  blown  down  by  the  strong 
winds  which  draw  through  these  mountains,  or  had  fallen 
through  age.  The  rocks,  too,  were  overhung  with  wild  vines 
and  briars,  which  completely  matted  themselves  together,  and 
opposed  a  barrier  to  all  ingress;  every  movement  that  he 
made,  shook  down  a  shower  from  the  dripping  foliage.  He 
attempted  to  scale  one  of  these  almost  perpendicular  heights ; 
but,  though  strong  and  agile,  he  found  it  an  Herculean  under- 
taking. Often  he  was  supported  merely  by  crumbling  projec- 
tions of  the  rock,  and  sometimes  he  clung  to  roots  and  branches 
of  trees,  and  hung  almost  suspended  in  the  air.  The  wood- 
pigeon  came  cleaving  his  whistling  flight  by  him,  and  the  eagle 
screamed  from  the  brow  of  the  impending  cliff.  As  he  was 
thus  clambering,  he  was  on  the  point  of  seizing  hold  of  a  shrub 
to  aid  his  ascent,  when  something  rustled  among  the  leaves, 
and  he  saw  a  snake  quivering  along  like  lightning,  almost  from 
under  his  hand.  It  coiled  itself  up  immediately,  in  an  attitude 
of  defiance,  with  flattened  head,  distended  jaws,  and  quickly- 
vibrating  tongue,  that  played  like  a  little  flame  about  its  mouth. 
Dolph's  heart  turned  faint  within  him,  and  he  had  well-nigh  let 
go  his  hold,  and  tumbled  down  the  precipice.  The  serpent 
stood  on  the  defensive  but  for  an  instant ;  and  finding  there 
was  no  attack,  it  glided  away  into  a  cleft  of  the  rock.  Dolph's 
eve  followed  with  fearful  intensity,  and  saw  a  nest  of  adders, 
knotted,  and  writhing,  and  hissing  in  the  chasm.  He  hastened 
with  all  speed  to  escape  from  so  frightful  a  neighborhood.  His 
imagination  full  of  this  new  horror,  saw  an  adder  in  every  curl- 
ing vine,  and  heard  the  tail  of  a  rattlesnake  in  every  dry  leaf 
that  rustled. 

At  length  he  succeeded  in  scrambling  to  the  summit  of  a 
precipice ;  but  it  was  covered  by  a  dense  forest.  Wherever  he 
could  gain  a  look-out  between  the  trees,  he  beheld  heights  and 
cliffs,  one  rising  beyond  another,  until  huge  mountains  over- 
topped the  whole.  There  were  no  signs  of  cultivation,  no 
smoke  curling  among  the  trees,  to  indicate  a  human  residence. 
Every  thing  was  wild  and  solitary.  As  he  was  standing  on 
the  edge  of  a  precipice  overlooking  a  deep  ravine  fringed  with 
trees,  his  feet  detached  a  great  fragment  of  rock  ;  it  fell,  crash- 
ing its  way  through  the  tree  tops,  down  into  the  chasm.  A 


272  BEACEBRIVGE   II ALL. 

loud  whoop,  or  rather  yell,  issued  from  the  bottom  of  the  glen  ; 
the  moment  after,  there  was  the  report  of  a  gun ;  and  a  ball 
came  whistling  over  his  head,  cutting  the  twigs  and  leaves,  and 
burying  itself  deep  in  the  bark  of  a  chestnut- tree. 

Dolph  did  not  wait  for  a  second  shot,  but  made  a  precipitate 
retreat ;  fearing  every  moment  to  hear  the  enemy  in  pursuit. 
He  succeeded,  however,  in  returning  unmolested  to  the  shore, 
and  determined  to  penetrate  no  farther  into  a  country  so  beset 
with  savage  perils. 

He  sat  himself  down,  dripping,  disconsolately,  on  a  wet  stone. 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  Where  was  he  to  shelter  himself  ?  The 
hour  of  repose  was  approaching ;  the  birds  were  seeking  their 
nests,  the  bat  began  to  flit  about  in  the  twilight,  and  the  night- 
hawk  soaring  high  in  the  heaven,  seemed  to  be  calling  out  the 
stars.  Night  gradually  closed  in,  and  wrapped  every  thing  in 
gloom ;  and  though  it  was  the  latter  part  of  summer,  the 
breeze,  stealing  along  the  river,  and  among  these  dripping 
forests,  was  chilly  and  penetrating,  especially  to  a  half- 
drowned  man. 

As  lie  sat  drooping  and  despondent  in  this  comfortless  con- 
dition, he  perceived  a  light  gleaming  through  the  trees  near 
the  shore,  where  the  winding  of  the  river  made  a  deep  bay.  It 
cheered  him  with  the  hope  of  a  human  habitation,  where  he 
might  get  something  to  appease  the  clamorous  cravings  of  his 
stomach,  and,  what  was  equally  necessary  in  his  shipwrecked 
condition,  a  comfortable  shelter  for  the  night.  With  extreme 
difficulty  he  made  his  way  towards  the  light,  along  ledges  of 
rocks  down  which  he  was  in  danger  of  sliding  into  the  river, 
and  over  great  trunks  of  fallen  ti*ees  ;  some  of  which  had  been 
blown  down  in  the  late  storm,  and  lay  so  thickly  together,  that 
he  had  to  struggle  through  their  branches.  At  length  he  came 
to  the  brow  of  a  rock  overhanging  a  small  dell,  whence  the  light 
proceeded.  It  was  from  a  fire  at  the  foot  of  a  great  tree,  in  the 
midst  of  a  grassy  interval,  or  plat,  among  the  rocks.  The  fire 
cast  up  a  red  glare  among  the  gray  crags  and  impending  trees ; 
leaving  chasms  of  deep  gloom,  that  resembled  entrances  to  cav- 
erns. A  small  brook  rippled  close  by,  betrayed  by  the  quiver- 
ing reflection  of  the  flame.  There  were  two  figures  moving 
about  the  fire,  and  others  squatted  before  it.  As  they  were 
between  him  and  the  light,  they  were  in  complete  shadow ; 
but  one  of  them  happening  to  move  round  to  the  opposite 
side,  Dolph  was  startled  at  perceiving,  by  the  glare  falling 
on  painted  features,  and  glittering  on  silver  ornaments,  that 


DOLPH   HEYLIGEB.  273 

he  was  an  Indian.  He  now  looked  more  narrowly,  and  saw 
guns  leaning  against  a  tree,  and  a  dead  body  lying  on  the 
ground. 

Here  was  the  very  foe  that  had  fired  at  him  from  the  glen. 
He  endeavored  to  retreat  quietly,  not  caring  to  entrust  himself 
to  these  half -human  beings  in  so  savage  and  lonely  a  place.  It 
was  too  late :  the  Indian,  with  that  eagle  quickness  of  eye  so 
remarkable  in  his  race,  perceived  something  stirring  among  the 
bushes  on  the  rock :  he  seized  one  of  the  guns  that  leaned 
against  the  tree  ;  one  moment  more,  and  Dolph  might  have  had 
his  passion  for  adventure  cured  by  a  bullet.  He  hallooed 
loudly,  with  the  Indian  salutation  of  friendship  :  the  whole  party 
sprang  upon  their  feet ;  the  salutation  was  returned,  and  the 
straggler  was  invited  to  join  them  at  the  fire. 

On  approaching,  he  found,  to  his  consolation,  the  party  was 
composed  of  white  men  as  well  as  Indians.  One,  evidently  the 
principal  personage,  or  commander,  was  seated  on  a  trunk  of 
a  tree  before  the  fire.  He  was  a  large,  stout  man,  somewhat 
advanced  in  life,  but  hale  and  hearty.  His  face  was  bronzed 
almost  to  the  color  of  an  Indian's ;  he  had  strong  but  rather 
jovial  features,  an  aquiline  nose,  and  a  mouth  shaped  like  a 
mastiff's.  His  face  was  half  thrown  in  shade  by  a  broad  hat, 
with  a  buck's-tail  in  it.  His  gray  hair  hung  short  in  his  neck. 
He  wore  a  hunting-frock,  with  Indian  leggings,  and  moccasons, 
and  a  tomahawk  in  the  broad  wampum  belt  round  his  waist. 
As  Dolph  caught  a  distinct  view  of  his  person  and  features, 
something  reminded  him  of  the  old  man  of  the  haunted  house. 
The  man  before  him,  however,  was  different  in  dress  and  age ; 
he  was  more  cheery,  too,  in  aspect,  and  it  was  hard  to  define 
where  the  vague  resemblance  lay  —  but  a  resemblance  there 
certainly  was.  Dolph  felt  some  degree  of  awe  in  approaching 
him  ;  but  was  assured  by  a  frank,  hearty  welcome.  He  was 
still  further  encouraged,  by  perceiving  that  the  dead  body, 
which  had  caused  him  some  alarm,  was  that  of  a  deer ;  and  his 
satisfaction  was  complete,  in  discerning,  by  savory  steams  from 
a  kettle  suspended  by  a  hooked  stick  over  the  fire,  that  there 
was  a  part  cooking  for  the  evening's  repast. 

He  had  in  fact  fallen  in  with  a  rambling  hunting  party,  such 
as  often  took  place  in  those  days  among  the  settlers  along  the 
river.  The  hunter  is  always  hospitable  ;  and  nothing  makes 
men  more  social  and  unceremonious,  than  meeting  in  the  wil- 
derness. The  commander  of  the  party  poured  out  a  dram  of 
cheering  liquor,  which  he  gave  him  with  a  merry  leer,  to  warm 


274  BRACEBRIDGE   HALL. 

his  heart;  and  ordered  one  of  his  followers  to  fetch  some 
garments  from  a  pinnace,  moored  in  a  cove  close  by,  while 
those  in  which  our  hero  was  dripping  might  be  dried  before 
the  fire. 

Dolph  found,  as  he  had  suspected,  that  the  shot  from  the 
glen,  which  had  come  so  near  giving  him  his  quietus  when  on 
the  precipice,  was  from  the  party  before  him.  He  had  nearly 
crushed  one  of  them  by  the  fragments  of  rock  which  he  had 
detached  ;  and  the  jovial  old  hunter,  in  the  broad  hat  and  buck- 
tail,  had  fired  at  the  place  where  he  saw  the  bushes  move,  sup- 
posing it  to  be  some  wild  animal.  He  laughed  heartily  at  the 
blunder ;  it  being  what  is  considered  an  exceeding  good  joke 
among  hunters ;  "  but  faith,  my  lad,"  said  he,  "  if  I  had  but 
caught  a  glimpse  of  you  to  take  sight  at,  you  would  have  fol- 
lowed the  rock.  Antony  Vander  Heyden  is  seldom  known  to 
miss  his  aim."  These  last  words  were  at  once  a  clew  to  Dolph's 
curiosity ;  and  a  few  questions  let  him  completely  into  the 
character  of  the  man  before  him,  and  of  his  band  of  woodland 
rangers.  The  commander  in  the  broad  hat  and  hunting-frock 
was  no  less  a  personage  than  the  Heer  Antony  Vander  Heyden, 
of  Albany,  of  whom  Dolph  had  many  a  time  heard.  He  was, 
in  fact,  the  hero  of  many  a  story;  his  singular  humors  and 
whimsical  habits,  being  matters  of  wonder  to  his  quiet  Dutch 
neighbors.  As  he  was  a  man  of  property,  having  had  a  father 
before  him,  from  whom  he  inherited  large  tracts  of  wild  land, 
and  whole  barrels  full  of  wampum,  he  could  indulge  his  humors 
without  control.  Instead  of  staying  quietly  at  home,  eating 
and  drinking  at  regular  meal  times  ;  amusing  himself  by  smok- 
ing his  pipe  on  the  bench  before  the  door,  and  then  turning  into 
a  comfortable  bed  at  night ;  he  delighted  in  all  kinds  of  rough, 
wild  expeditions.  Never  so  happy  as  when  on  a  hunting  party 
in  the  wilderness,  sleeping  under  trees  or  bark  sheds,  or  cruis- 
ing down  the  river,  or  on  some  woodland  lake,  fishing  and 
fowling,  and  living  the  Lord  knows  how. 

He  was  a  great  friend  to  Indians,  and  to  an  Indian  mode 
of  life ;  which  he  considered  true  natural  liberty  and  manly 
enjoyment.  When  at  home,  he  had  always  several  Ind- 
ian hangers-on,  who  loitered  about  his  house,  sleeping  like 
hounds  in  the  sunshine,  or  preparing  hunting  and  fishing-tackle 
for  some  new  expedition,  or  shooting  at  marks  with  bows  and 
arrows. 

Over  these  vagrant  beings,  Heer  Antony  had  as  perfect  com- 
mand as  a  huntsman  over  his  pack ;  though  they  were  great 


DOLPH    HETLIGEE.  275 

nuisances  to  the  regular  people  of  his  neighborhood.  As  he 
was  a  rich  man,  no  one  ventured  to  thwart  his  humors  ;  indeed, 
his  hearty,  joyous  manner  made  him  universally  popular.  He 
would  troll  a  Dutch  song,  as  he  tramped  along  the  street ;  hail 
every  one  a  mile  off ;  and  when  he  entered  a  house,  would  slap 
the  good  man  familiarly  on  the  tack,  shake  him  by  the  hand 
till  he  roared,  and  kiss  his  wife  and  daughter  before  his  face 
—  in  short,  there  was  no  pride  nor  ill-humor  about  Heer 
Antony. 

Besides  his  Indian  hangers-on,  he  had  three  or  four  humble 
friends  among  the  white  men,  who  looked  up  to  him  as  a 
patron,  and  had  the  run  of  his  kitchen,  and  the  favor  of  being 
taken  with  him  occasionally  on  his  expeditions.  With  a  medley 
of  such  retainers  he  was  at  present  on  a  cruise  along  the  shores 
of  the  Hudson,  in  a  pinnace  kept  for  his  own  recreation. 
There  were  two  white  men  with  him,  dressed  partly  in  the 
Indian  style,  with  moccasons  and  hunting-shirts ;  the  rest  of 
his  crew  consisted  of  four  favorite  Indians.  They  had  been 
prowling  about  the  river,  without  any  definite  object,  until  they 
found  themselves  in  the  highlands  ;  where  they  had  passed  two 
or  three  days,  hunting  the  deer  which  still  lingered  among  these 
mountains. 

"It  is  lucky  for  you,  young  man,"  said  Antony  Vander 
Hey  den,  "  that  you  happened  to  be  knocked  overboard  to-day, 
as  to-morrow  morning  we  start  early  on  our  return  homewards, 
and  you  might  then  have  looked  in  vain  for  a  meal  among  the 
mountains  —  but  come,  lads,  stir  about !  stir  about !  Let's  see 
what  prog  we  have  for  supper;  the  kettle  has  boiled  long 
enough  ;  my  stomach  cries  cupboard  ;  and  I'll  warrant  our  guest 
is  in  no  mood  to  daUy  with  his  trencher." 

There  was  a  bustle  now  in  the  little  encampment.  One  took 
off  the  kettle,  and  turned  a  part  of  the  contents  into  a  huge 
wooden  bowl ;  another  prepared  a  flat  rock  for  a  table  ;  while 
a  third  brought  various  utensils  from  the  pinnace  ;  Heer  Antony 
himself  brought  a  flask  or  two  of  precious  liquor  from  his  own 
private  locker  —  knowing  his  boon  companions  too  well  to  trust 
any  of  them  with  the  key. 

A  rude  but  hearty  repast  was  soon  spread;  consisting  of 
venison  smoking  from  the  kettle,  with  cold  bacon,  boiled  Indian 
corn,  and  mighty  loaves  of  good  brown  household  bread.  Never 
had  Dolph  made  a  more  delicious  repast ;  and  when  he  had 
washed  it  down  with  two  or  three  draughts  from  the  Heer 
Antony's  flask,  and  felt  the  jolly  liquor  sending  its  warmth 


276  BRACEBBIDGE    HALL. 

through  his  veins,  and  glowing  round  his  very  heart,  he  would 
not  have  changed  his  situation,  no,  not  with  the  governor  of 
the  province. 

The  Heer  Antony,  too,  grew  chirping  and  joyous  ;  told  half- 
a-dozen  fat  stories,  at  which  his  white  followers  laughed 
immoderately,  though  the  Indians,  as  usual,  maintained  an  in- 
vincible gravity. 

"  This  is  your  true  life,  my  boy !  "  said  he,  slapping  Dolph 
on  the  shoulder ;  "  a  man  is  never  a  man  till  he  can  defy  wind 
and  weather,  range  woods  and  wilds,  sleep  under  a  tree,  and 
live  on  bass-wood  leaves !  " 

And  then  would  he  sing  a  stave  or  two  of  a  Dutch  drinking 
song,  swaying  a  short  squab  Dutch  bottle  in  his  hand,  while 
his  myrmidons  would  join  in  the  chorus,  until  the  woods  echoed 
again ;  —  as  the  good  old  song  has  it : 

"  They  all  with  a  shout  made  the  elements  ring, 

So  soon  as  the  office  was  o'er; 
To  feasting  they  went  with  true  merriment, 
And  tippled  strong  liquor  gillore." 

In  the  midst  of  his  joviality,  however,  Heer  Antony  did  not 
lose  sight  of  discretion.  Though  he  pushed  the  bottle  without 
reserve  to  Dolph,  he  always  took  care  to  help  his  followers 
himself,  knowing  the  beings  he  had  to  deal  with;  and  was 
particular  in  granting  but  a  moderate  allowance  to  the  Indians. 
The  repast  being  ended,  the  Indians  having  drunk  their  liquor 
and  smoked  their  pipes,  now  wrapped  themselves  in  their 
blankets,  stretched  themselves  on  the  ground  with  their  feet 
to  the  fire,  and  soon  fell  asleep,"  like  so  many  tired  hounds. 
The  rest  of  the  party  remained  chatting  before  the  fire,  which 
the  gloom  of  the  forest,  and  the  dampness  of  the  air  from  the 
late  storm,  rendered  extremely  grateful  and  comforting.  The 
conversation  gradually  moderated  from  the  hilarity  of  supper- 
time,  and  turned  upon  hunting  adventures,  and  exploits  and 
perils  in  the  wilderness ;  many  of  which  were  so  strange  and 
improbable,  that  I  will  not  venture  to  repeat  them,  lest  the 
veracity  of  Antony  Vander  Heyden  and  his  comrades  should 
be  brought  into  question.  There  were  many  legendary  tales 
told,  also,  about  the  river,  and  the  settlements  on  its  borders  ; 
in  which  valuable  kind  of  lore,  the  Heer  Antony  seemed 
deeply  versed.  As  the  sturdy  bush-beater  sat  in  a  twisted  root 
of  a  tree,  that  served  him  for  an  arm-chair,  dealing  forth  these 
wild  stories,  with  the  fire  gleaming  on  his  strongly-marked  vis- 
age, Dolph  was  again  repeatedly  perplexed  by  something  that 


DOLPH    HEYLIGEB.  277 

reminded  him  of  the  phantom  of  the  haunted  house  ;  some  vague 
resemblance,  not  to  be  fixed  upon  any  precise  feature  or  linea- 
ment, but  pervading  the  general  air  of  his  countenance  and 
figure. 

The  circumstance  of  Dolph's  falling  overboard  led  to  the  re- 
lation of  divers  disasters  and  singular  mishaps  that  had  befallen 
voyagers  on  this  great  river,  particularly  in  the  earlier  periods 
of  colonial  history ;  most  of  which  the  Heer  deliberately  attrib- 
uted to  supernatural  causes.  Dolph  stared  at  this  suggestion  ; 
but  the  old  gentleman  assured  him  it  was  very  currently  believed 
by  the  settlers  along  the  river,  that  these  highlands  were  under 
the  dominion  of  supernatural  and  mischievous  beings,  which 
seemed  to  have  taken  some  pique  against  the  Dutch  colonists  in 
the  early  time  of  the  settlement.  In  consequence  of  this,  they 
have  ever  taken  particular  delight  in  venting  their  spleen,  and  in- 
dulging their  humors,  upon  the  Dutch  skippers  ;  bothering  them 
with  flaws,  head  winds,  counter  currents,  and  all  kinds  of  im- 
pediments ;  insomuch,  that  a  Dutch  navigator  was  always 
obliged  to  be  exceedingly  wary  and  deliberate  in  his  proceed- 
ings ;  to  come  to  anchor  at  dusk ;  to  drop  his  peak,  or  take 
in  sail,  whenever  he  saw  a  swag-bellied  cloud  rolling  over 
the  mountains ;  in  short,  to  take  so  many  precautions,  that 
he  was  often  apt  to  be  an  incredible  time  in  toiling  up  the 
river. 

Some,  he  said,  believed  these  mischievous  powers  of  the  air 
to  be  evil  spirits  conjured  up  by  the  Indian  wizards,  in  the  early 
times  of  the  province,  to  revenge  themselves  on  the  strangers 
who  had  dispossessed  them  of  their  country.  They  even  at- 
tributed to  their  incantations  the  misadventure  which  befell  the 
renowned  Hendrick  Hudson,  when  he  sailed  so  gallantly  up  this 
river  in  quest  of  a  north-west  passage,  and,  as  he  thought,  run 
his  ship  aground ;  which  they  affirm  was  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  spell  of  these  same  wizards,  to  prevent  his  getting  to 
China  in  this  direction. 

The  greater  part,  however,  Heer  Antony  observed,  accounted 
for  all  the  extraordinary  circumstances  attending  this  river,  and 
the  perplexities  of  the  skippers  who  navigated"  it,  by  the  old 
legend  of  the  Storm-ship,  which  haunted  Point- no- point  On 
finding  Dolph  to  be  utterly  ignorant  of  this  tradition,  the  Heer 
stared  at  him  for  a  moment  with  surprise,  and  wondered  where 
he  had  passed  his  life,  to  be  uninformed  on  so  important  a 
point  of  history.  To  pass  away  the  remainder  of  the  evening, 
therefore,  he  undertook  the  tale,  as  far  as  his  memory  would 
serve,  in  the  very  words  in  which  it  had  been  written  out 


278  BRACEBRIDGE   HALL. 

by  Mynheer  Selyne,  an  early  poet  of  the  New  Nederlandts. 
Giving,  then,  a  stir  to  the  fire,  that  sent  up  its  sparks  among 
the  trees  like  a  little  volcano,  he  adjusted  himself  comfortably 
in  his  root  of  a  tree ;  and  throwing  back  his  head,  and  closing 
his  eyes  for  a  few  moments,  to  summon  up  his  recollection,  he 
related  the  following  legend. 


THE   STORM-SHIP. 

IN  the  golden  age  of  the  province  of  the  New  Netherlands, 
when  it  was  under  the  sway  of  Wouter  Van  Twiller,  otherwise 
called  the  Doubter,  the  people  of  the  Manhattoes  were  alarmed, 
one  sultry  afternoon,  just  about  the  time  of  the  summer  solstice, 
by  a  tremendous  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning.  The  rain 
fell  in  such  torrents,  as  absolutely  to  spatter  up  and  smoke 
along  the  ground.  It  seemed  as  "if  the  thunder  rattled  and 
rolled  over  the  very  roofs  of  the  houses ;  the  lightning  was  seen 
to  play  about  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas,  and  to  strive  three 
times,  in  vain,  to  strike  its  weather-cock.  Garret  Van  Home's 
new  chimney  was  split  almost  from  top  to  bottom  ;  and  Doffue 
Mildeberger  was  struck  speechless  from  his  bald-faced  mare, 
just  as  he  was  riding  into  town.  In  a  word,  it  was  one  of  those 
unparalleled  storms,  which  only  happen  once  within  the  memory 
of  that  venerable  personage,  known  in  all  towns  by  the  appella- 
tion of  "  the  oldest  inhabitant." 

Great  was  the  terror  of  the  good  old  women  of  the  Manhat- 
toes. They  gathered  their  children  together,  and  look  refuge 
in  the  cellars ;  after  having  hung  a  shoe  on  the  iron  point  of 
every  bed-post,  lest  it  should  attract  the  lightning.  At  length 
the  storm  abated  ;  the  thunder  sunk  into  a  growl ;  and  the  set- 
ting sun,  breaking  from  under  the  fringed  borders  of  the  clouds, 
made  the  broad  bosom  of  the  bay  to  gleam  like  a  sea  of  molten 
gold. 

The  word  was  given  from  the  fort,  that  a  ship  was  standing 
up  the  bay.  It  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  street  to 
street,  and  soon  put  the  little  capital  in  a  bustle.  The  arrival 
of  a  ship,  in  those  early  times  of  the  settlement,  was  an  event 
of  vast  importance  to  the  inhabitants.  It  brought  them  news 
from  the  old  world,  from  the  land  of  their  birth,  from  which 
they  were  so  completely  severed :  to  the  yearly  ship,  too,  they 
looked  for  their  supply  of  luxuries,  of  finery,  of  comforts,  and 


THE  STORM-SHIP.  279 

almost  of  necessaries.  The  good  vrouw  could  not  have  her 
new  cap,  nor  new  gown,  until  the  arrival  of  the  ship  ;  the  artist 
waited  for  it  for  his  tools,  the  burgomaster  for  his  pipe  and  his 
supply  of  Hollands,  the  school-boy  for  his  top  and  marbles,  and 
the  lordly  landholder  for  the  bricks  with  which  he  was  to  build 
his  new  mansion.  Thus  every  one,  rich  and  poor,  great  and 
small,  looked  out  for  the  arrival  of  the  ship.  It  was  the  great 
yearly  event  of  the  town  of  New  Amsterdam ;  and  from  one 
end  of  the  year  to  the  other,  the  ship  —  the  ship  —  the  ship  — 
was  the  continual  topic  of  conversation. 

The  news  from  the  fort,  therefore,  brought  all  the  populace 
down  to  the  battery,  to  behold  the  wished-for  sight.  It  was 
not  exactly  the  time  when  she  had  been  expected  to  arrive,  and 
the  circumstance  was  a  matter  of  some  speculation.  Many 
were  the  groups  collected  about  the  battery.  Here  and  there 
might  be  seen  a  burgomaster,  of  slow  and  pompous  gravity, 
giving  his  opinion  with  great  confidence  to  a  crowd  of  old 
women  and  idle  boys.  At  another  place  was  a  knot  of  old 
weatherbeaten  fellows,  who  had  been  seamen  or  fishermen  in 
their  times,  and  were  great  authorities  on  such  occasions  ;  these 
gave  different  opinions,  and  caused  great  disputes  among  their 
several  adherents  :  but  the  man  most  looked  up  to,  and  followed 
and  watched  by  the  crowd,  was  Hans  Van  Pelt,  an  old  Dutch 
sea-captain  retired  from  service,  the  nautical  oracle  of  the 
place.  He  reconnoitred  the  ship  through  an  ancient  telescope, 
covered  with  tarry  canvas,  hummed  a  Dutch  tune  to  himself, 
and  said  nothing.  A  hum,  however,  from  Hans  Van  Pelt  had 
always  more  weight  with  the  public  than  a  speech  from  an- 
other man. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  ship  became  more  distinct  to  the  naked 
eye  :  she  was  a  stout,  round  Dutch-built  vessel,  with  high  bow 
and  poop,  and  bearing  Dutch  colors.  The  evening  sun  gilded 
her  bellying  canvas,  as  she  came  riding  over  the  long  waving 
billows.  The  sentinel  who  had  given  notice  of  her  approach, 
declared,  that  he  first  got  sight  of  her  when  she  was  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  bay ;  and  that  she  broke  suddenly  on  his  sight,  just 
as  if  she  had  come  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  black  thunder-cloud. 
The  bystanders  looked  at  Hans  Van  Pelt,  to  see  what  he  would 
say  to  this  report :  Hans  Van  Pelt  screwed  his  mouth  closer  to- 
gether, and  said  nothing  ;  upon  which  some  shook  their  heads, 
and  others  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

The  ship  was  now  repeatedly  hailed,  but  made  no  reply,  and, 
passing  by  the  fort,  stood  on  up  the  Hudson.  A  gun  was 
brought  to  bear  on  her,  and,  with  some  difficulty,  loaded  and 


280  BBACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

fired  by  Hans  Van  Pelt,  the  garrison  not  being  expert  in  artil- 
lery. The  shot  seemed  absolutely  to  pass  through  the  ship,  and 
to  skip  along  the  water  on  the  other  side,  but  no  notice  was  taken 
of  it !  What  was  strange,  she  had  all  her  sails  set,  and  sailed 
right  against  wind  and  tide,  which  were  both  down  the  river. 
Upon  this  Hans  Van  Pelt,  who  was  likewise  harbor-master, 
ordered  his  boat,  and  set  off  to  board  her ;  but  after  rowing 
two  or  three  hours,  he  returned  without  success.  Sometimes 
he  would  get  within  one  or  two  hundred  yards  of  her,  and 
then,  in  a  twinkling,  she  would  be  half  a  mile  off.  Some  said 
it  was  because  his  oarsmen,  who  were  rather  pursy  and  short- 
winded,  stopped  ever}-  now  and  then  to  take  breath,  and  spit 
on  their  hands ;  but  this,  it  is  probable,  was  a  mere  scandal. 
He  got  near  enough,  however,  to  see  the  crew ;  who  were  all 
dressed  in  the  Dutch  style,  the  officers  in  doublets  and  high 
hats  and  feathers  :  not  a  word  was  spoken  by  any  one  on  board  ; 
they  stood  as  motionless  as  so  many  statues,  and  the  ship 
seemed  as  if  left  to  her  own  government.  Thus  she  kept  on, 
away  up  the  river,  lessening  and  lessening  in  the  evening  sun- 
shine, until  she  faded  from  sight,  like  a  little  white  cloud  melt- 
ing away  in  the  summer  sky. 

The  appearance  of  this  ship  threw  the  governor  into  one 
of  the  deepest  doubts  that  ever  beset  him  in  the  whole  course  of 
his  administration.  Fears  were  entertained  for  the  security 
of  the  infant  settlements  on  the  river,  lest  this  might  be  an 
enemy's  ship  in  disguise,  sent  to  take  possession.  The  gov- 
ernor called  together  his  council  repeatedly  to  assist  him  with 
their  conjectures.  He  sat  in  his  chair  of  state,  built  of  timber 
from  the  sacred  forest  of  the  Hague,  smoking  his  long  jasmine 
pipe,  and  listening  to  all  that  his  counsellors  had  to  say  on 
a  subject  about  which  they  knew  nothing ;  but,  in  spite  of  all 
the  conjecturing  of  the  sagest  and  oldest  heads,  the  governor 
still  continued  to  doubt. 

Messengers  were  despatched  to  different  places  on  the  river ; 
but  they  returned  without  any  tidings  —  the  ship  had  made  no 
port.  Day  after  day,  and  week  after  week,  elapsed ;  but  she 
never  returned  down  the  Hudson.  As,  however,  the  council 
seemed  solicitous  for  intelligence,  they  had  it  in  abundance. 
The  captains  of  the  sloops  seldom  arrived  without  bringing 
some  report  of  having  seen  the  strange  ship  at  different  parts 
of  the  river ;  sometimes  near  the  Palisadoes ;  sometimes  off 
Croton  Point,  and  sometimes  in  the  highlands ;  but  she  never 
was  reported  as  having  been  seen  above  the  highlands.  The 
crews  of  the  sloops,  it  is  true,  generally  differed  among  them- 


THE   STORM-SHIP.  281 

selves  in  their  accounts  of  these  apparitions;  but  that  may 
have  arisen  from  the  uncertain  situations  in  which  they  saw  her. 
Sometimes  it  was  by  the  flashes  of  the  thunder-storm  lighting 
up  a  pitchy  night,  and  giving  glimpses  of  her  careering  across 
Tappaan  Zee,  or  the  wide  waste  of  Haverstraw  Bay.  At  one 
moment  she  would  appear  close  upon  them,  as  if  likely  to  run 
them  down,  and  would  throw  them  into  great  bustle  and  alarm  ; 
but  the  next  flash  would  show  her  far  off,  always  sailing  against 
the  wind.  Sometimes,  in  quiet  moonlight  nights,  she  would  be 
seen  under  some  high  bluff  of  the  highlands,  all  in  deep  shadow, 
excepting  her  top-sails  glittering  in  the  moonbeams ;  by  the 
time,  however,  that  the  voyagers  reached  the  place,  no  ship 
was  to  be  seen ;  and  when  they  had  passed  on  for  some  dis- 
tance, and  looked  back,  behold !  there  she  was  again  with  her 
top-sails  in  the  moonshine !  Her  appearance  was  always  just 
after,  or  just  before,  or  just  in  the  midst  of,  unruly  weather ; 
and  she  was  known  among  the  skippers  and  voyagers  of  the 
Hudson,  by  the  name  of  "  the  storm-ship." 

These  reports  perplexed  the  governor  and  his  council  more 
than  ever;  and  it  would  be  endless  to  repeat  the  conjectures 
and  opinions  uttered  on  the  subject.  Some  quoted  cases  in 
point,  of  ships  seen  off  the  coast  of  New  England,  navi- 
gated by  witches  and  goblins.  Old  Hans  Van  Pelt,  who  had 
been  more  than  once  to  the  Dutch  colony  at  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  insisted  that  this  must  be  the  Flying  Dutchman  which 
had  so  long  haunted  Table  Bay,  but,  being  unable  to  make 
port,  had  now  sought  another  harbor.  Others  suggested,  that, 
if  it  really  was  a  supernatural  apparition,  as  there  was  every 
natural  reason  to  believe,  it  might  be  Hendrick  Hudson,  and 
his  crew  of  the  Half-Moon ;  who,  it  was  well  known,  had  once 
run  aground  in  the  upper  part  of  the  river,  in  seeking  a  north- 
west passage  to  China.  This  opinion  had  very  little  weight 
with  the  governor,  but  it  passed  current  out  of  doors;  for  in- 
deed it  had  already  been  reported,  that  Hendrick  Hudson  and 
his  crew  haunted  the  Kaatskill  Mountain ;  and  it  appeared  very 
reasonable  to  suppose,  that  his  ship  might  infest  the  river,  where 
the  enterprise  was  baffled,  or  that  it  might  bear  the  shadowy 
crew  to  their  periodical  revels  in  the  mountain. 

Other  events  occurred  to  occupy  the  thoughts  and  doubts  of 
the  sage  Wouter  and  his  council,  and  the  storm-ship  ceased  to 
be  a  subject  of  deliberation  at  the  board.  It  continued, 
however,  a  matter  of  popular  belief  and  marvellous  anecdote 
through  the  whole  time  of  the  Dutch  government,  and  particu- 
larly just  before  the  capture  of  New  Amsterdam,  and  the  sub- 


282  BEACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

jugation  of  the  province  by  the  English  squadron.  About  that 
time  the  storm-ship  was  repeatedly  seen  in  the  Tappaan  Zee, 
and  about  Weehawk,  and  even  down  as  far  as  Hoboken ;  and 
her  appearance  was  supposed  to  be  ominous  of  the  approaching 
squall  in  public  affairs,  and  the  downfall  of  Dutch  domination. 

Since  that  time,  we  have  no  authentic  accounts  of  her ;  though 
it  is  said  she  still  haunts  the  highlands  and  cruises  about  Point- 
no-point.  People  who  live  along  the  river,  insist  that  they 
sometimes  see  her  in  summer  moonlight ;  and  that  in  a  deep 
still  midnight,  they  have  heard  the  chant  of  her  crew,  as  if 
heaving  the  lead  ;  but  sights  and  sounds  are  so  deceptive  along 
the  mountainous  shores,  and  about  the  wide  bays  and  long 
reaches  of  this  great  river,  that  I  confess  I  have  very  strong 
doubts  upon  the  subject. 

It  is  certain,  nevertheless,  that  strange  things  have  been  seen 
in  these  highlands  in  storms,  which  are  considered  as  connected 
with  the  old  story  of  the  ship.  The  captains  of  the  river  craft 
talk  of  a  little  bulbous-bottomed  Dutch  goblin,  in  trunk  hose 
and  sugar-loafed  hat,  with  a  speaking  trumpet  in  his  hand, 
which  they  say  keeps  about  the  Dunderberg.1  They  declare 
they  have  heard  him,  in  stormy  weather,  in  the  midst  of  the 
turmoil,  giving  orders  in  Low  Dutch  for  the  piping  up  of  a 
fresh  gust  of  wind,  or  the  rattling  off  of  another  thunder-clap. 
That  sometimes  he  has  been  seen  surrounded  by  a  crew  of  little 
imps  in  broad  breeches  and  short  doublets  ;  tumbling  head-over- 
heels  in  the  rack  and  mist,  and  playing  a  thousand  gambols  in 
the  air ;  or  buzzing  like  a  swarm  of  flies  about  Antony's  Nose ; 
and  that,  at  such  times,  the  hurry-scurry  of  the  storm  was 
always  greatest.  One  time,  a  sloop,  in  passing  by  the  Dunder- 
berg, was  overtaken  by  a  thunder-gust,  that  came  scouring 
round  the  mountain,  and  seemed  to  burst  just  over  the  vessel. 
Though  tight  and  well  ballasted,  she  labored  dreadfully, 
and  the  water  came  over  the  gunwale.  All  the  crew  were 
amazed,  when  it  was  discovered  that  there  was  a  little  white 
sugar-loaf  hat  on  the  mast-head,  known  at  once  to  be  the 
hat  of  the  Heer  of  the  Dunderberg.  Nobody,  however, 
dared  to  climb  to  the  mast-head,  and  get  rid  of  this  terrible 
hat.  The  sloop  continued  laboring  and  rocking,  as  if  she  would 
have  rolled  her  mast  overboard.  She  seemed  in  continual 
danger  either  of  upsetting  or  of  running  on  shore.  In  this  way 
she  drove  quite  through  the  highlands,  until  she  had  passed 
Pollopol's  Island,  where,  it  is  said,  the  jurisdiction  of  the 

U.«..  the  "  Thunder-MountsU. ,"  *>  called  from  its  echoes. 


THE    STORM-SHIP.  283 

Dunderberg  potentate  ceases.  No  sooner  had  she  passed  this 
bourne,  than  the  little  hat  spun  up  into  the  air  like  a  top, 
whirled  up  all  the  clouds  into  a  vortex,  and  hurried  them  back 
to  the  summit  of  the  Dunderberg,  while  the  sloop  righted  her- 
self, and  sailed  on  as  quietly  as  if  in  a  mill-pond.  Nothing 
saved  her  from  utter  wreck,  but  the  fortunate  circumstance  of 
having  a  horse-shoe  nailed  against  the  mast  —  a  wise  precaution 
against  evil  spirits,  since  adopted  by  all  the  Dutch  captains  that 
navigate  this  haunted  river. 

There  is  another  story  told  of  this  foul-weather  urchin,  by 
Skipper  Daniel  Ouslesticker,  of  Fishkill,  who  was  never  known 
to  tell  a  lie.  He  declared,  that,  in  a  severe  squall,  he  saw  him 
seated  astride  of  his  bowsprit,  riding  the  sloop  ashore,  full  butt 
against  Antony's  Nose  ;  and  that  he  was  exorcised  by  Dominie 
Van  Gieson,  of  Esopus,  who  happened  to  be  on  board,  and  who 
sung  the  hymn  of  St.  Nicholas ;  whereupon  the  goblin  threw 
himself  up  in  the  air  like  a  ball,  and  went  off  in  a  whirlwind, 
carrying  away  with  him  the  nightcap  of  the  Dominie's  wife; 
which  was  discovered  the  next  Sunday  morning  hanging  on  the 
weather-cock  of  Esopus  church  steeple,  at  least  forty  miles  off ! 
Several  events  of  this  kind  having  taken  place,  the  regular 
skippers  of  the  river,  for  a  long  time,  did  not  venture  to  pass 
the  Dunderberg,  without  lowering  their  peaks,  out  of  homage 
to  the  Heer  of  the  mountain ;  and  it  was  observed  that  all  such 
as  paid  this  tribute  of  respect  were  suffered  to  pass  unmo- 
lested.1   

"  Such,"  said  Antony  Vander  Heyden,  "  are  a  few  of  the 
stories  written  down  by  Selyne  the  poet  concerning  this  storm- 
ship  ;  which  he  affirms  to  have  brought  a  crew  of  mischievous 
imps  into  the  province,  from  some  old  ghost-ridden  country 

1  Among  the  superstitions  which  prevailed  in  the  colonies  during  the  early  times  of 
the  settlements,  there  seems  to  have  been  a  singular  one  about  phantom  ships.  The 
superstitious  fancies  of  men  are  always  apt  to  turn  upon  those  objects  which  concern 
their  daily  occupations.  The  solitary  ship,  which,  from  year  to  year,  came  like  a  raven 
in  the  wilderness,  bringing  to  the  inhabitants  of  a  settlement  the  comforts  of  life  from 
the  world  from  which  they  were  cut  off,  was  apt  to  be  present  to  their  dreams,  whether 
s.eeping  or  waking.  The  accidental  sight  from  shore,  of  a  sail  gliding  along  the  horizon, 
in  those,  as  yet,  lonely  seas,  was  apt  to  be  a  matter  of  much  talk  and  speculation.  Thera 
is  mention  made  in  one  of  the  early  New-England  writers,  of  a  ship  navigated  by 
witches,  with  a  great  horse  that  stood  by  the  mainmast.  I  have  met  with  another  story, 
somewhere,  of  a  ship  that  drove  on  shore  in  fair,  sunny,  tranquil  weather,  with  sails 
all  set,  and  a  table  spread  in  the  cabin,  as  if  to  regale  a  number  of  guests,  yet  not  a  liv- 
ing being  on  board.  These  phantom  ships  always  sailed  in  the  eye  of  the  wind  ;  or 
ploughed  their  way  with  great  velocity,  making  the  smooth  sea  foam  before  their  bows, 
when  not  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring. 

Moore  has  finely  wrought  up  one  of  these  legends  of  the  sea  into  a  little  tale  which, 
within  a  small  compass,  contains  the  very  essence  of  this  species  of  supernatural  fictio*. 
I  allude  to  his  Spectre-Ship  bound  to  Dead-man's  Isle. 


284  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

of  Europe.  I  could  give  you  a  host  more,  if  necessary ;  for 
all  the  accidents  that  so  often  befall  the  river  craft  iu  the 
highlands,  are  said  to  be  tricks  played  off  by  these  imps  of  the 
Dunderberg :  but  I  see  that  you  are  nodding,  so  let  us  turn  in 
for  the  night." 

The  moon  had  just  raised  her  silver  horns  above  the  round 
back  of  old  Bull- Hill,  and  lit  up  the  gray  rocks  and  shagged 
forests,  and  glittered  on  the  waving  bosom  of  the  river.  The 
night-dew  was  falling,  and  the  late  gloomy  mountains  began  to 
soften,  and  put  on  a  gray  aerial  tint  in  the  dewy  light.  The 
hunters  stirred  the  fire,  and  threw  on  fresh  fuel  to  qualify  the 
damp  of  the  night  air.  They  then  prepared  a  bed  of  branches 
and  dry  leaves  under  a  ledge  of  rocks,  for  Dolph  ;  while  Antony 
Vander  Heyden,  wrapping  himself  in  a  huge  coat  of  skins, 
stretched  himself  before  the  fire.  It  was  some  time,  however, 
before  Dolph  could  close  his  eyes.  He  lay  contemplating  the 
strange  scene  before  him  :  the  wild  woods  and  rocks  around  — 
the  fire,  throwing  fitful  gleams  on  the  faces  of  the  sleeping 
savages  — and  the  Heer  Antony,  too,  who  so  singularly,  yet 
vaguely  reminded  him  of  the  nightly  visitant  to  the  haunted 
house.  Now  and  then  he  heard  the  cry  of  some  animal  from 
the  forest ;  or  the  hooting  of  the  owl ;  or  the  notes  of  the  whip- 
poor-will,  which  seemed  to  abound  among  these  solitudes ;  or 
the  splash  of  a  sturgeon,  leaping  out  of  the  river,  and  falling 
back  full  length  on  its  placid  surface.  He  contrasted  all  this 
with  his  accustomed  nest  in  the  garret-room  of  the  doctor's 
mansion  ;  where  the  only  sounds  at  night  were  the  church-clock 
telling  the  hour ;  the  drowsy  voice  of  the  watchman,  drawling 
out  all  was  well ;  the  deep  snoring  of  the  doctor's  clubbed  nose 
from  below  stairs ;  or  the  cautious  labors  of  some  carpenter  rat 
gnawing  in  the  wainscot.  His  thoughts  then  wandered  to  his 
poor  old  mother :  what  would  she  think  of  his  mysterious  dis- 
appearance?—  what  anxiety  and  distress  would  she  not  suffer? 
This  was  the  thought  that  would  continually  intrude  itself,  to 
mar  his  present  enjoyment.  It  brought  with  it  a  feeling  of  pain 
and  compunction,  and  he  fell  asleep  with  the  tears  yet  standing 
in  his  eyes. 

Were  this  a  mere  tale  of  fancy,  here  would  be  a  fine  oppor- 
tunity for  weaving  in  strange  adventures  among  these  wild 
mountains  and  roving  hunters ;  and,  after  involving  my  hero 
in  a  variety  of  perils  and  difficulties,  rescuing  him  from  them 
all  by  some  miraculous  contrivance  :  but  as  this  is  absolutely  a 
true  story,  I  must  content  myself  with  eimple  facts,  and  keep 
to  probabilities. 


THE    STORM-SHIP.  285 

At  an  early  hour  of  the  next  day,  therefore,  after  a  hearty 
morning's  meal,  the  encampment  broke  up,  and  our  adven- 
turers embarked  in  the  pinnace  of  Antony  Vander  Heyden. 
There  being  no  wind  for  the  sails,  the  Indians  rowed  her  gently 
along,  keeping  time  to  a  kind  of  chant  of  one  of  the  white  men. 
The  day  was  serene  and  beautiful ;  the  river  without  a  wave ; 
and  as  the  vessel  cleft  the  glassy  water,  it  left  a  long,  undu- 
lating track  behind.  The  crows,  who  had  scented  the  hunters' 
banquet,  were  already  gathering  and  hovering  in  the  air,  just 
where  a  column  of  thin,  blue  smoke,  rising  from  among  the 
trees,  showed  the  place  of  their  last  night's  quarters.  As  they 
coasted  along  the  bases  of  the  mountains,  the  Heer  Antony 
pointed  out  to  Dolph  a  bald  eagle,  the  sovereign  of  these 
regions,  who  sat  perched  on  a  dry  tree  that  projected  over  the 
river ;  and,  with  eye  turned  upwards,  seemed  to  be  drinking  in 
the  splendor  of  the  morning  sun.  Their  approach  disturbed 
the  monarch's  meditations.  He  first  spread  one  wing,  and 
then  the  other ;  balanced  himself  for  a  moment ;  and  then, 
quitting  his  perch  with  dignified  composure,  wheeled  slowly 
over  their  heads.  Dolph  snatched  up  a  gun,  and  sent  a  whis- 
tling ball  after  him,  that  cut  some  of  the  feathers  from  his  wing  ; 
the  report  of  the  gun  leaped  sharply  from  rock  to  rock,  and 
awakened  a  thousand  echoes  ;  but  the  monarch  of  the  air  sailed 
calmly  on,  ascending  higher  and  higher,  and  wheeling  widely 
as  he  ascended,  soaring  up  the  green  bosom  of  the  woody 
mountain,  until  he  disappeared  over  the  brow  of  a  beetling 
precipice.  Dolph  felt  in  a  manner  rebuked  by  this  proud  tran- 
quillity, and  almost  reproached  himself  for  having  so  wantonly 
insulted  this  majestic  bird.  Heer  Antony  told  him,  laughing, 
to  remember  that  he  was  not  yet  out  of  the  territories  of  the 
lord  of  the  Dunderberg ;  and  an  old  Indian  shook  his  head, 
and  observed  that  there  was  bad  luck  in  killing  an  eagle  —  the 
hunter,  on  the  contrary,  should  always  leave  him  a  portion  of 
his  spoils. 

Nothing,  however,  occurred  to  molest  them  on  their  voyage. 
They  passed  pleasantly  through  magnificent  and  lonely  scenes, 
until  they  came  to  where  Pollopol's  Island  lay,  like  a  floating 
bower,  at  the  extremity  of  the  highlands.  Here  they  landed, 
until  the  heat  of  the  day  should  abate,  or  a  breeze  spring  up, 
that  might  supersede  the  labor  of  the  oar.  Some  prepared  the 
mid-day  meal,  while  others  reposed  under  the  shade  of  the  trees 
in  luxurious  summer  indolence,  looking  drowsily  forth  upon 
the  beautj-  of  the  scene.  On  the  one  side  were  the  highlands, 
vast  and  cragged,  feathered  to  the  top  with  forests,  and  throw- 


286  SBACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

ing  their  shadows  on  the  glassy  water  that  dimpled  at  their  feet. 
On  the  other  side  was  a  wide  expanse  of  the  river,  like  a  broad 
lake,  with  long  sunny  reaches,  and  green  headlands ;  and  the 
distant  line  of  Shawungunk  mountains  waving  along  a  clear 
horizon,  or  checkered  by  a  fleecy  cloud. 

But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on  the  particulars  of  their  cruise  along 
the  river  ;  this  vagrant,  amphibious  life,  careering  across  silver 
sheets  of  water ;  coasting  wild  woodland  shores  ;  banqueting  on 
shady  promontories,  with  the  spreading  tree  overhead,  the  river 
curling  its  light  foam  to  one's  feet,  and  distant  mountain,  and 
rock,  and  tree,  and  snowy  cloud,  and  deep-blue  sky,  all  mingling 
in  summer  beauty  before  one ;  all  this,  though  never  cloying  in 
the  enjoyment,  would  be  but  tedious  in  narration. 

When  encamped  by  the  water-side,  some  of  the  party  would 
go  into  the  woods  and  hunt ;  others  would  fish  :  sometimes  they 
would  amuse  themselves  by  shooting  at  a  mark,  by  leaping,  by 
running,  by  wrestling ;  and  Dolph  gained  great  favor  in  the 
eyes  of  Antony  Vander  Heyden,  by  his  skill  and  adroitness  in 
all  these  exercises ;  which  the  Heer  considered  as  the  highest 
of  manly  accomplishments. 

Thus  did  they  coast  jollily  on,  choosing  only  the  pleasant 
hours  for  voyaging ;  sometimes  in  the  cool  morning  dawn, 
sometimes  in  the  sober  evening  twilight,  and  sometimes  when 
the  moonshine  spangled  the  crisp  curling  waves  that  whispered 
along  the  sides  of  their  little  bark.  Never  had  Dolph  felt  so 
completely  in  his  element ;  never  had  he  met  with  any  thing 
so  completely  to  his  taste  as  this  wild,  hap-hazard  life.  He 
was  the  very  man  to  second  Antony  Vander  Heyden  in  his 
rambling  humors,  and  gained  continually  on  his  affections. 
The  heart  of  the  old  bushwhacker  yearned  toward  the  young 
man,  who  seemed  thus  growing  up  in  his  own  likeness  ;  and  as 
they  approached  to  the  end  of  their  voyage,  he  could  not  help 
inquiring  a  little  into  his  history.  Dolph  frankly  told  him  his 
course  of  life,  his  severe  medical  studies,  his  little  proficiency, 
and  his  very  dubious  prospects.  The  Heer  was  shocked  to  find 
that  such  amazing  talents  and  accomplishments  were  to  be 
cramped  and  buried  under  a  doctor's  wig.  He  had  a  sovereign 
contempt  for  the  healing  art,  having  never  had  any  other  phy- 
sician than  the  butcher.  He  bore  a  mortal  grudge  to  all  kinds 
of  study  also,  ever  since  he  had  been  flogged  about  an  unintel- 
ligible book  when  he  was  a  boy.  But  to  think  that  a  young 
felloAV  like  Dolph,  of  such  wonderful  abilities,  who  could  shoot, 
fish,  run,  jump,  ride,  and  wrestle,  should  be  obliged  to  roll  pills 
and  administer  juleps  for  a  living —  'twas  monstrous  !  He  told 


THE  STORM-SHIP.  287 

Dolph  never  to  despair,  but  to  "  throw  physic  to  the  dogs ;  '"' 
for  a  young  fellow  of  his  prodigious  talents  could  never  fail 
to  make  his  way.  "  As  you  seem  to  have  no  acquaintance  in 
Albany,"  said  Heer  Antony,  "  you  shall  go  home  with  me,  and 
remain  under  my  roof  until  you  can  look  about  you  ;  and  in 
the  mean  time  we  can  take  an  occasional  bout  at  shooting  and 
fishing,  for  it  is  a  pity  such  talents  should  lie  idle." 

Dolph,  who  was  at  the  mercy  of  chance,  was  not  hard  to 
be  persuaded.  Indeed,  on  turning  over  matters  in  his  mind, 
which  he  did  very  sagely  and  deliberately,  he  could  not  but 
think  that  Antony  Vander  Heyden  was,  "  somehow  or  other," 
connected  with  the  story  of  the  Haunted  House :  that  the  mis- 
adventure in  the  highlands,  which  had  thrown  them  so  strangely 
together,  was,  "  somehow  or  other,"  to  work  out  something 
good :  in  short,  there  is  nothing  so  convenient  as  this  "  some- 
how or  other  "  way  of  accommodating  one's  self  to  circum- 
stances ;  it  is  the  main-stay  of  a  heedless  actor,  and  tardy 
reasoner,  like  Dolph  Heyliger;  and  he  who  can,  in  this  loose, 
easy  way,  link  foregone  evil  to  anticipated  good,  possesses  a 
secret  of  happiness  almost  equal  to  the  philosopher's  stone. 

On  their  arrival  at  Albany,  the  sight  of  Dolph's  companion 
seemed  to  cause  universal  satisfaction.  Many  were  the  greet- 
ings at  the  river  side,  and  the  salutations  in  the  streets :  the 
clogs  bounded  before  him ;  the  boys  whooped  as  he  passed ; 
everybody  seemed  to  know  Antony  Vander  Heyden.  Dolph 
followed  on  in  silence,  admiring  the  neatness  of  this  worthy 
burgh ;  for  in  those  days  Albany  was  in  all  its  glory,  and  in- 
habited almost  exclusively  by  the  descendants  of  the  original 
Dutch  settlers,  not  having  as  yet  been  discovered  and  colo- 
nized by  the  restless  people  of  New  England.  Every  thing 
was  quiet  and  orderly ;  every  thing  was  conducted  calmly  and 
leisurely ;  no  hurry,  no  bustle,  no  struggling  and  scrambling 
for  existence.  The  grass  grew  about  the  unpaved  streets,  and 
relieved  the  eye  by  its  refreshing  verdure.  Tall  sycamores 
or  pendent  willows  shaded  the  houses,  with  caterpillars  swing- 
ing, in  long  silken  strings,  from  their  branches,  or  moths,  flut- 
tering about  like  coxcombs,  in  joy  at  their  gay  transformation. 
The  houses  were  built  in  the  old  Dutch  style,  with  the  gable- 
ends  towards  the  street.  The  thrifty  housewife  was  seated  on 
a  bench  before  her  door,  in  close  crimped  cap,  bright  flowered 
gown,  and  white  apron,  busily  employed  in  knitting.  The  hus- 
oand  smoked  his  pipe  on  the  opposite  bench,  and  the  little  pet 
negro  girl,  seated  on  the  step  at  her  mistress'  feet,  was  indus- 
triously plying  her  needle.  The  swallows  sported  about  the 


'2SS  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

eaves,  or  skimmed  along  the  streets,  and  brought  back  some 
rich  booty  for  their  clamorous  young ;  and  the  little  house- 
keeping wren  flew  in  and  out  of  a  liliputiau  house,  or  an  old 
hat  nailed  against  the  wall.  The  cows  were  coming  home, 
lowing  through  the  streets,  to  be  milked  at  their  owner's  door; 
and  if,  perchance,  there  were  any  loiterers,  some  negro  urchin, 
with  a  long  goad,  was  gently  urging  them  homewards. 

As  Dolph's  companion  passed  on,  he  received  a  tranquil  nod 
from  the  burghers,  and  a  friendly  word  from  their  wives ;  all 
calling  him  familiarly  by  the  name  of  Antony ;  for  it  was  the 
custom  in  this  stronghold  of  the  patriarchs,  where  they  had 
all  grown  up  together  from  childhood,  to  call  each  other  by  the 
Christian  name.  The  Heer  did  not  pause  to  have  his  usual 
jokes  with  them,  for  he  was  impatient  to  reach  his  home.  At 
length  they  arrived  at  his  mansion.  It  was  of  some  magni- 
tude, in  the  Dutch  style,  with  large  iron  figures  on  the  gables, 
that  gave  the  date  of  its  erection,  and  showed  that  it  had  been 
built  in  the  earliest  times  of  the  settlement. 

The  news  of  Heer  Antony's  arrival  had  preceded  him ;  and 
the  whole  household  was  on  the  look-out.  A  crew  of  negroes, 
large  and  small,  had  collected  in  front  of  the  house  to  receive 
him.  The  old,  white-headed  ones,  who  had  grown  gray  in  his 
service,  grinned  for  joy  and  made  many  awkward  bows  and 
grimaces,  and  the  little  ones  capered  about  his  knees.  But  the 
most  happy  being  in  the  household  was  a  little,  plump,  bloom- 
ing lass,  his  only  child,  and  the  darling  of  his  heart.  She  came 
bounding  out  of  the  house ;  but  the  sight  of  a  strange  young 
man  with  her  father  called  up,  for  a  moment,  all  the  bashful- 
ness  of  a  homebred  damsel.  Dolph  gazed  at  her  with  wonder 
and  delight;  never  had  he  seen,  as  he  thought,  any  thing  so 
comely  in  the  shape  of  woman.  She  was  dressed  in  the  good 
old  Dutch  taste,  with  long  stays,  and  full,  short  petticoats,  so 
admirably  adapted  to  show  and  set  off  the  female  form.  Her 
hair,  turned  up  under  a  small  round  cap,  displayed  the  fairness 
of  her  forehead ;  she  had  fine,  blue,  laughing  eyes,  a  trim,  slen- 
der waist,  and  soft  swell  —  but,  in  a  word,  she  was  a  little 
Dutch  divinity  ;  and  Dolph,  who  never  stopt  half-way  in  a  new 
impulse,  fell  desperately  in  love  with  her. 

Dolph  was  now  ushered  into  the  house  with  a  hearty  wel- 
come. In  the  interior  was  a  mingled  display  of  Heer  Antony's 
taste  and  habits,  and  of  the  opulence  of  his  predecessors.  The 
chambers  were  furnished  with  good  old  mahogany ;  the  beau- 
fets  and  cupboards  glittered  with  embossed  silver,  and  painted 
china.  Over  the  parlor  fireplace  was,  as  usual,  the  family 


1'HE  STORM- SHIP.  289 

coat-of-arms,  painted  and  framed ;  above  which  was  a  long 
duck  fowling-piece,  flanked  by  an  Indian  pouch,  and  a  powder- 
horn.  The  room  was  decorated  with  man}'  Indian  articles, 
such  as  pipes  of  peace,  tomahawks,  scalping-knives,  hunting- 
pouches,  and  belts  of  wampum ;  and  there  were  various  kinds 
of  fishing  tackle,  and  two  or  three  fowling-pieces  in  the  corners. 
The  household  affairs  seemed  to  be  conducted,  in  some  meas- 
ure, after  the  master's  humors  ;  corrected,  perhaps,  by  a  little 
quiet  management  of  the  daughter's.  There  was  a  great  degree 
of  patriarchal  simplicity,  and  good-humored  indulgence.  The 
negroes  came  into  the  room  without  being  called,  merely  to 
look  at  their  master,  and  hear  of  his  adventures ;  they  would 
stand  listening  at  the  door  until  he  had  finished  a  story,  and 
then  go  off  on  a  broad  grin,  to  repeat  it  in  the  kitchen.  A  couple 
of  pet  negro  children  were  playing  about  the  floor  with  the 
dogs,  and  sharing  with  them  their  bread  and  butter.  All  the 
domestics  looked  hearty  and  happy ;  and  when  the  table  was 
jet  for  the  evening  repast,  the  variety  and  abundance  of  good 
household  luxuries  bore  testimony  to  the  open-handed  liberality 
of  the  Heer,  and  the  notable  housewifery  of  his  daughter. 

In  the  evening  there  dropped  in  several  of  the  worthies  of 
the  place,  the  Van  Renssellaers,  and  the  Gansevoorts,  and  the 
Rosebooms,  and  others  of  Antony  Vander  Heyden's  intimates, 
to  hear  an  account  of  his  expedition  ;  for  he  was  the  Sindbad  of 
Albany,  and  his  exploits  and  adventures  were  favorite  topics 
of  conversation  among  the  inhabitants.  While  these  sat  gossip- 
ing together  about  the  door  of  the  hall,  and  telling  long  twilight 
stories,  Dolph  was  cozily  seated,  entertaining  the  daughter  on 
a  window-bench.  He  had  already  got  on  intimate  terms ;  for 
those  were  not  times  of  false  reserve  and  idle  ceremony ;  and, 
besides,  there  is  something  wonderfully  propitious  to  a  lover's 
suit,  in  the  delightful  dusk  of  a  long  summer  evening  ;  it  gives 
courage  to  the  most  timid  tongue,  and  hides  the  blushes  of 
the  bashful.  The  stars  alone  twinkled  brightly  ;  and  now  and 
then  a  fire-fly  streamed  his  transient  light  before  the  window, 
or,  wandering  into  the  room,  flew  gleaming  about  the  ceiling. 

What  Dolph  whispered  in  her  ear,  that  long  summer  even- 
ing, it  is  impossible  to  say  :  his  words  were  so  low  and  indistinct, 
that  they  never  reached  the  ear  of  the  historian.  It  is  proba- 
ble, however,  that  they  were  to  the  purpose ;  for  he  had  a 
natural  talent  at  pleasing  the  sex,  and  was  never  long  in  com- 
pany with  a  petticoat  without  paying  proper  court  to  it.  In 
the  mean  time,  the  visitors,  one  by  one,  departed ;  Antony  Van- 
der Heyden,  who  had  fairly  talked  himself  silent,  sat  nodding 


290  BRACEBRIDGE  II ALL. 

alone  in  his  chair  by  the  door,  when  he  was  suddenly  aroused 
by  a  hearty  salute  with  which  Dolph  Heyliger  had  unguardedly 
rounded  off  one  of  his  periods,  and  which  echoed  through  the 
still  chamber  like  the  report  of  a  pistol.  The  Heer  started 
up,  rubbed  his  eyes,  called  for  lights,  and  observed,  that 
it  was  high  time  to  go  to  bed ;  though,  on  parting  for  the 
night,  he  squeezed  Dolph  heartily  by  the  hand,  looked  kindly 
in  his  face,  and  shook  his  head  knowingly ;  for  the  Heer 
well  remembered  what  he  himself  had  been  at  the  youngster's 
age. 

The  chamber  in  which  our  hero  was  lodged  was  spacious,  and 
panelled  with  oak.  It  was  furnished  with  clothes-presses,  and 
mighty  chests  of  drawers,  well  waxed,  and  glittering  with  brass 
ornaments.  These  contained  ample  stock  of  family  linen ;  for 
the  Dutch  housewives  had  always  a  laudable  pride  in  showing 
off  their  household  treasures  to  strangers. 

Dolph's  mind,  however,  was  too  full  to  take  particular  note 
of  the  objects  around  him ;  yet  he  could  not  help  continually 
comparing  the  free,  open-hearted  cheeriness  of  this  establish- 
ment with  the  starveling,  sordid,  joyless  housekeeping  at  Doc- 
tor Knipperhausen's.  Still  something  marred  the  enjoyment 
—  the  idea  that  he  must  take  leave  of  his  hearty  host  and 
pretty  hostess  and  cast  himself  once  more  adrift  upon  the 
world.  To  linger  here  would  be  folly;  he  should  only  get 
deeper  in  love  ;  and  for  a  poor  varlet  like  himself  to  aspire  to 
the  daughter  of  the  great  Heer  Vander  Heyden  —  it  was  mad- 
ness to  think  of  such  a  thing !  The  very  kindness  that  the  girl 
bad  shown  towards  him  prompted  him,  on  reflection,  to  hasten 
his  departure  ;  it  would  be  a  poor  return  for  the  frank  hospi- 
tality of  his  host  to  entangle  his  daughter's  heart  in  an 
injudicious  attachment.  In  a  word,  Dolph  was  like  many  other 
young  reasoners,  of  exceeding  good  hearts  and  giddy  heads, 
who  think  after  they  act,  and  act  differently  from  what  they 
think ;  who  make  excellent  determinations  overnight  and  for- 
get to  keep  them  the  next  morning. 

"  This  is  a  fine  conclusion,  truly,  of  my  voyage,"  said  he,  as 
he  almost  buried  himself  in  a  sumptuous  feather-bed,  and  drew 
the  fresh  white  sheets  up  to  his  chin.  "  Here  am  I,  instead  of 
finding  a  bag  of  money  to  carry  home,  launched  in  a  strange 
place,  with  scarcely  a  stiver  in  my  pocket ;  and,  what  is  worse, 
have  jumped  ashore  up  to  my  very  ears  in  love  into  the  bar- 
gain. However,"  added  he,  after  some  pause,  stretching  him- 
self and  turning  himself  in  bed,  "  I'm  in  good  quarters  for  the 
present,  at  least ;  so  I'll  e'en  enjoy  the  present  moment,  and  let 


THE    STORM-SHIP.  291 

*he  next  take  care  of  itself  ;  I  dare  say  all  will  work  out, '  some- 
how or  other,'  for  the  best." 

As  he  said  these  words,  he  reached  out  his  hand  to  extinguish 
the  candle,  when  he  was  suddenly  struck  with  astonishment 
and  dismay,  for  he  thought  he  beheld  the  phantom  of  the 
haunted  house  staring  on  him  from  a  dusky  part  of  the  cham- 
ber. A  second  look  reassured  him,  as  he  perceived  that  what 
he  had*  taken  for  the  spectre  was,  in  fact,  nothing  but  a  Flem- 
ish portrait,  hanging  in  a  shadowy  corner  just  behind  a 
clothes-press.  It  was,  however,  the  precise  representation  of 
his  nightly  visitor :  — the  same  cloak  and  belted  jerkin,  the  same 
grizaled  beard  and  fixed  eye,  the  same  broad  slouched  hat,  with 
a  feather  hanging  over  one  side.  Dolph  now  called  to  mind 
the  resemblance  he  had  frequently  remarked  between  his  host 
and  the  old  man  of  the  haunted  house ;  and  was  fully  convinced 
they  were  in  some  way  connected,  and  that  some  especial 
destiny  had  governed  his  voyage.  He  lay  gazing  on  the  por- 
trait with  almost  as  much  awe  as  he  had  gazed  on  the  ghostly 
original,  until  the  shrill  house-clock  warned  him  of  the  lateness 
of  the  hour.  He  put  out  the  light ;  but  remained  for  a  long 
time  turning  over  these  curious  circumstances  and  coincidences 
in  his  mind,  until  he  fell  asleep.  His  dreams  partook  of  the 
nature  of  his  waking  thoughts.  He  fancied  that  he  still  lay 
gazing  on  the  picture,  until,  by  degrees,  it  became  animated ; 
that  the  figure  descended  from  the  wall  and  walked  out  of  the 
room ;  that  he  followed  it  and  found  himself  by  the  well,  to 
which  the  old  man  pointed,  smiled  on  him,  and  disappeared. 

In  the  morning  when  he  waked,  he  found  his  host  stand- 
ing by  his  bedside,  who  gave  him  a  hearty  morning's  saluta- 
tion, and  asked  him  how  he  had  slept.  Dolph  answered 
cheerily ;  but  took  occasion  to  inquire  about  the  portrait  that 
hung  against  the  wall.  "  Ah,"  said  Heer  Antony,  "  that's  a 
portrait  of  old  Killian  Vander  Spiegel,  once  a  burgomaster  of 
Amsterdam,  who,  on  some  popular  troubles,  abandoned  Hol- 
land, and  came  over  to  the  province  during  the  government  of 
Petei  Stuyvesant.  He  was  my  ancestor  by  the  mother's  side, 
.and  an  old  miserly  curmudgeon  he  was.  When  the  English 
took  possession  of  New  Amsterdam  in  1664,  he  retired  into 
the  country.  He  fell  into  a  melancholy,  apprehending  that 
his  wealth  would  be  taken  from  him  and  he  come  to  beg- 
gary. He  turned  all  his  property  into  cash,  and  used  to  hide 
it  away.  He  was  for  a  year  or  two  concealed  in  various 
places,  fancying  himself  sought  after  by  the  English,  to  strip 
him  of  his  wealth  ;  and  finally  was  found  dead  in  his  bed  one 


292  BEACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

morning,  without  any  one  being  able  to  discover  where  he  had 
concealed  the  greater  part  of  his  money." 

When  his  host  had  left  the  room,  Dolph  remained  for  some 
time  lost  in  thought.  His  whole  mind  was  occupied  by  what 
he  had  heard.  Vander  Spiegel  was  his  mother's  family  name ; 
and  he  recollected  to  have  heard  her  speak  of  this  very  Killian 
Vander  Spiegel  as  one  of  her  ancestors.  He  had  heard  her  say, 
too,  that  her  father  was  Killian' s  rightful  heir,  only  that  the  old 
man  died  without  leaving  any  thing  to  be  inherited.  It  now 
appeared  that  Heer  Antony  was  likewise  a  descendant,  and 
perhaps  an  heir  also,  of  this  poor  rich  man ;  and  that  thus  the 
Heyligers  and  the  Vander  Heydens  were  remotely  connected. 
"What,"  thought  he,  "  if,  after  all,  this  is  the  interpretation 
of  my  dream,  that  this  is  the  way  I  am  to  make  my  fortune  by 
this  voyage  to  Albany,  and  that  I  am  to  find  the  old  man's 
hidden  wealth  in  the  bottom  of  that  well?  But  what  an  odd, 
round-about  mode  of  communicating  the  matter !  Why  the 
plague  could  not  the  old  goblin  have  told  me  about  the  well  at 
once,  without  sending  me  all  the  way  to  Albany  to  hear  a  story 
that  was  to  send  me  all  the  way  back  again? " 

These  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind  while  he  was  dress- 
ing. He  descended  the  stairs,  full  of  perplexity,  when  the 
bright  face  of  Marie  Vander  Heyden  suddenly  beamed  in  smiles 
upon  him,  and  seemed  to  give  him  a  clew  to  the  whole  mystery. 
"After  all,"  thought  he,  "  the  old  goblin  is  in  the  right.  If 
I  am  to  get  his  wealth,  he  means  that  I  shall  marry  his  pretty 
descendant ;  thus  both  branches  of  the  family  will  be  again 
united,  and  the  property  go  on  in  the  proper  channel." 

No  sooner  did  this  idea  enter  his  head,  than  it  carried  con- 
viction with  it.  He  was  now  all  impatience  to  hurry  back  and 
secure  the  treasure,  which,  he  did  not  doubt,  lay  at  the  bottom 
of  the  well,  and  which  he  feared  every  moment  might  be  dis- 
covered by  some  other  person.  "Who  knows,"  thought  he, 
"but  this  night- walking  old  fellow  of  the  haunted  house  may 
be  in  the  habit  of  haunting  every  visitor,  and  may  give  a  hint 
to  some  shrewder  fellow  than  myself,  who  will  take  a  shorter 
cut  to  the  well  than  by  the  way  of  Albany  ?  "  He  wished  a 
thousand  times  that  the  babbling  old  ghost  was  laid  in  the  Red 
Sea,  and  his  rambling  portrait  with  him.  He  was  in  a  perfect 
fever  to  depart.  Two  or  three  days  elapsed  before  any  oppor- 
tunity presented  for  returning  down  the  river.  They  were  ages 
to  Dolph,  notwithstanding  that  he  was  basking  in  the  smiles  of 
the  pretty  Marie,  and  daily  getting  more  and  more  enamoured. 

At  length  the  very  sloop  from  which  he  had  been  knocked 


THE  STORM-SHIP.  293 

overboard,  prepared  to  make  sail.  Dolph  made  an  awkward 
apology  to  his  host  for  his  sudden  departure.  Antony  Vander 
Heyden  was  sorely  astonished.  He  had  concerted  half-a-dozen 
excursions  into  the  wilderness ;  and  his  Indians  were  actually 
preparing  for  a  grand  expedition  to  one  of  the  lakes.  He  took 
Dolph  aside,  and  exerted  his  eloquence  to  get  him  to  abandon 
all  thoughts  of  business,  and  to  remain  with  him  — but  in  vain  ; 
and  he  at  length  gave  up  the  attempt,  observing,  "  that  it  was 
a  thousand  pities  so  fine  a  young  man  should  throw  himself 
away."  Heer  Antony,  however,  gave  him  a  hearty  shake  by 
the  hand  at  parting,  with  a  favorite  fowling-piece,  and  an  invi- 
tation to  come  to  his  house  whenever  he  revisited  Albany.  The 
pretty  little  Marie  said  nothing  ;  but  as  he  gave  her  a  farewell 
kiss,  her  dimpled  cheek  turned  pale,  and  a  tear  stood  in  her  eye. 

Dolph  sprang  lightly  on  board  of  the  vessel.  They  hoisted 
sail ;  the  wind  was  fair ;  they  soon  lost  sight  of  Albany, 
its  green  hills,  and  embowered  islands.  They  were  wafted  gayly 
past  the  Kaatskill  mountains,  whose  fairy  heights  were  bright 
and  cloudless.  They  passed  prosperously  through  the  high- 
lands, without  any  molestation  from  the  Duuderberg  goblin 
and  his  crew ;  they  swept  on  across  Haverstraw  Bay,  and  by 
Croton  Point,  and  through  the  Tappaan  Zee,  and  under  the 
Palisadoes,  until,  in  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  they  saw 
the  promontory  of  Hoboken,  hanging  like  a  cloud  in  the  air; 
and,  shortly  after,  the  roofs  of  the  Manhattoes  rising  out  of 
the  water. 

Dolph' s  first  care  was  to  repair  to  his  mother's  house  ;  for  he 
was  continually  goaded  by  the  idea  of  the  uneasiness  she  must 
experience  on  his  account.  He  was  puzzling  his  brains,  as  he 
went  along,  to  think  how  he  should  account  for  his  absence, 
without  betraying  the  secrets  of  the  haunted  house.  In  the 
midst  of  these  cogitations,  he  entered  the  street  in  which  his 
mother's  house  was  situated,  when  he  was  thunderstruck  at 
beholding  it  a  heap  of  ruins. 

There  had  evidently  been  a  great  fire,  which  had  destroyed 
several  large  houses,  and  the  humble  dwelling  of  poor  Dame 
Heyliger  had  been  involved  in  the  conflagration.  The  walls 
were  not  so  completely  destroyed  but  that  Dolph  could  distin- 
guish some  traces  of  the  scene  of  his  childhood.  The  fireplace, 
about  which  he  had  often  played,  still  remained,  ornamented 
with  Dutch  tiles,  illustrating  passages  in  Bible  history,  on 
which  he  had  many  a  time  gazed  with  admiration.  Among 
the  rubbish  lay  the  wreck  of  the  good  dame's  elbow-chair,  from 
which  she  had  given  him  so  many  a  wholesome  precept ;  and 


294  BKACEBR1DGE  BALL. 

hard  by  it  was  the  family  Bible,  with  brass  clasps  ;  now,  alas ! 
reduced  almost  to  a  cinder. 

For  a  moment  Dolph  was  overcome  by  this  dismal  sight,  for 
he  was  seized  with  the  fear  that  his  mother  hud  perished  in  the 
flames.  He  was  relieved,  however,  from  this  horrible  appre- 
hension, by  one  of  the  neighbors  who  happened  to  come  by, 
and  informed  him  that  his  mother  was  yet  alive. 

The  good  woman  had,  indeed,  lost  every  thing  by  this  un- 
looked-for calamity  ;  for  the  populace  had  been  so  intent  upon 
saving  the  fine  furniture  of  her  rich  neighbors,  that  the  little 
tenement,  and  the  little  all  of  poor  Dame  Heyliger,  had  been 
suffered  to  consume  without  interruption  ;  nay,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  gallant  assistance  of  her  old  crony,  Peter  de  Groodt,  the 
worthy  dame  and  her  cat  might  have  shared  the  fate  of  their 
habitation. 

As  it  was,  she  had  been  overcome  with  fright  and  affliction, 
and  lay  ill  in  body,  and  sick  at  heart.  The  public,  however, 
had  showed  her  its  wonted  kindness.  The  furniture  of  her  rich 
neighbors  being,  as  far  as  possible,  rescued  from  the  flames ; 
themselves  duly  and  ceremoniously  visited  and  condoled  with 
on  the  injury  of  their  property,  and  their  ladies  commiserated 
on  the  agitation  of  their  nerves  ;  the  public,  at  length,  began  to 
recollect  something  about  poor  Dame  Heyliger.  She  forthwith 
became  again  a  subject  of  universal  sympathy ;  everybody 
pitied  her  more  than  ever ;  and  if  pity  could  but  have  been 
coined  into  cash  —  good  Lord  !  how  rich  she  would  have  been  ! 

It  was  now  determined,  in  good  earnest,  that  something  ought 
to  be  done  for  her  without  delay.  The  Dominie,  therefore,  put 
up  prayers  for  her  on  Sunday,  in  which  all  the  congregation 
joined  most  heartily.  Even  Cobus  Groesbeek,  the  alderman, 
and  Mynheer  Milledollar,  the  great  Dutch  merchant,  stood  up 
in  their  pews,  and  did  not  spare  their  voices  on  the  occasion ; 
and  it  was  thought  the  prayers  of  such  great  men  could  not 
but  have  their  due  weight.  Doctor  Knipperhausen,  too,  visited 
her  professionally,  and  gave  her  abundance  of  advice  gratis, 
and  was  universally  lauded  for  his  charity.  As  to  her  old 
friend,  Peter  de  Groodt,  he  was  a  poor  man,  whose  pity,  and 
prayers,  and  advice  could  be  of  but  little  avail,  so  he  gave  her 
all  that  was  in  his  power  —  he  gave  her  shelter. 

To  the  humble  dwelling  of  Peter  de  Groodt,  then,  did  Dolph 
turn  his  steps.  On  his  way  thither,  he  recalled  all  the  tender- 
ness and  kindness  of  his  simple-hearted  parent,  her  indulgence 
of  his  errors,  her  blindness  to  his  faults  ;  and  then  he  bethought 
himself  of  his  own  idle,  harum-scarum  life.  "I've  been  a  sad 


THE  STORM-SHIP.  295 

scapegrace,"  said  Dolph,  shaking  his  head  sorrowfully.  "  I've 
been  a  complete  sink-pocket,  that's  the  truth  of  it!  —  But," 
added  he,  briskly,  and  clasping  his  hands,  "  only  let  her  live  — 
only  let  her  live  —  and  I'll  show  myself  indeed  a  son  !  " 

As  Dolph  approached  the  house,  he  met  Peter  de  Groodt 
coming  out  of  it.  The  old  man  started  back  aghast,  doubting 
whether  it  was  not  a  ghost  that  stood  before  him.  It  being 
bright  daylight,  however,  Peter  soon  plucked  up  heart,  satis- 
fied that  no  ghost  dare  show  his  face  in  such  clear  sunshine. 
Dolph  now  learned  from  the  worthy  sexton  the  consternation 
and  rumor  to  which  his  mysterious  disappearance  had  given 
rise.  It  had  been  universally  believed  that  he  had  been  spirited 
away  by  those  hobgoblin  gentry  that  infested  the  haunted  house  ; 
and  old  Abraham  Vandozer,  who  lived  by  the  great  button-wood 
trees,  near  the  three-mile  stone,  affirmed,  that  he  had  heard  a 
terrible  noise  in  the  air,  as  he  was  going  home  late  at  night, 
which  seemed  just  as  if  a  flock  of  wild  geese  were  overhead, 
passing  off  towards  the  northward.  The  haunted  house  was, 
in  consequence,  looked  upon  with  ten  times  more  awe  than 
ever ;  nobody  would  venture  to  pass  a  night  in  it  for  the  world, 
and  even  the  doctor  had  ceased  to  make  his  expeditions  to  it  in 
the  daytime. 

It  required  some  preparation  before  Dolph's  return  could  be 
made  known  to  his  mother,  the  poor  soul  having  bewailed  him 
as  lost ;  and  her  spirits  having  been  sorely  broken  down  by  a 
number  of  comforters,  who  daily  cheered  her  with  stories  of 
ghosts,  and  of  people  carried  away  by  the  devil.  He  found 
her  confined  to  her  bed,  with  the  other  member  of  the  Heyliger 
family,  the  good  dame's  cat,  purring  beside  her,  but  sadly 
singed,  and  utterly  despoiled  of  those  whiskers  which  were  the 
glory  of  her  ph3~siognomy.  The  poor  woman  threw  her  arms 
about  Dolph's  neck  :  "  My  boy  !  my  boy  !  art  thou  still  alive?  " 
For  a  time  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  her  losses  and 
troubles,  in  her  joy  at  his  return.  Even  the  sage  grimalkin 
showed  indubitable  signs  of  joy,  at  the  return  of  the  youngster. 
She  saw,  perhaps,  that  they  were  a  forlorn  and  undone  family, 
and  felt  a  touch  of  that  kindliness  which  fellow-sufferers  only 
know.  But,  in  truth,  cats  are  a  slandered  people ;  they  have 
more  affection  in  them  than  the  world  commonly  gives  them 
credit  for. 

The  good  dame's  eyes  glistened  as  she  saw  one  being,  at 
least,  beside  herself,  rejoiced  at  her  son's  return.  "  Tib  knows 
thee  !  poor  dumb  beast !  "  said  she,  smoothing  down  the  mottled 
coat  of  her  favorite  ;  then  recollecting  herself,  with  a  melancholy 


296  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

shake  of  the  head,  "Ah,  my  poor  Dolph ! "  exclaimed  she,  "  thy 
mother  can  help  thee  no  longer !  She  can  no  longer  help  her- 
self !  What  will  become  of  thee,  my  poor  boy  !  " 

"Mother,"  said  Dolph,  "  don't  talk  in  that  strain  ;  I've  been 
too  long  a  charge  upon  you  ;  it's  now  my  part  to  take  care  of 
you  in  your  old  days.  Come !  be  of  good  heart !  you,  and  I, 
and  Tib,  will  all  see  better  days.  I'm  here,  you  see,  young, 
and  sound,  and  hearty ;  then  don't  let  us  despair ;  I  dare  say 
things  will  all,  somehow  or  other,  turn  out  for  the  best." 

While  this  scene  was  going  on  with  the  Heyliger  family,  the 
news  was  carried  to  Doctor  Xnipperhausen,  of  the  safe  return 
of  his  disciple.  The  little  doctor  scarcely  knew  whether  to 
rejoice  or  be  sorry  at  the  tidings.  He  was  happy  at  having 
the  foul  reports  which  had  prevailed  concerning  his  country 
mansion  thus  disproved  ;  but  ho  grieved  at  having  his  disciple, 
of  whom  he  had  supposed  himself  fairly  disencumbered,  thus 
drifting  back,  a  heavy  charge  upon  his  hands.  While  balanc- 
ing between  these  two  feelings,  he  was  determined  by  the 
counsels  of  Frau  Ilsy,  who  advised  him  to  take  advantage  of 
the  truant  absence  of  the  youngster,  and  shut  the  door  upon 
him  forever. 

At  the  hour  of  bedtime,  therefore,  when  it  was  supposed  the 
recreant  disciple  would  seek  his  old  quarters,  every  thing  was 
prepared  for  his  reception.  Dolph,  having  talked  his  mother 
into  a  state  of  tranquillity,  sought  the  mansion  of  his  quondam 
master,  and  raised  the  knocker  with  a  faltering  hand.  Scarcely, 
however,  had  it  given  a  dubious  rap,  when  the  doctor's  head, 
in  a  red  nightcap,  popped  out  of  one  window,  and  the  house- 
keeper's, in  a  white  nightcap,  out  of  another.  He  was  now 
greeted  with  a  tremendous  volley  of  hard  names  and  hard  lan- 
guage, mingled  with  invaluable  pieces  of  advice,  such  as  are 
seldom  ventured  to  be  given  excepting  to  a  friend  in  distress, 
or  a  culprit  at  the  bar.  In  a  few  moments,  not  a  window  in  the 
street  but  had  its  particular  nightcap,  listening  io  the  shrill 
treble  of  Frau  Ilsy,  and  the  guttural  croaking  of  Dr.  Knipper- 
hausen ;  and  the  word  went  from  window  to  window,  "Ah! 
here's  Dolph  Heyliger  come  back,  and  at  his  old  pranks 
again."  In  short,  poor  Dolph  found  he  was  likely  to  get 
nothing  from  the  doctor  but  good  advice  —  a  commodity  so 
abundant  as  even  to  be  thrown  out  of  the  window ;  so  he  was 
fain  to  beat  a  retreat,  and  take  up  his  quarters  for  the  night 
under  the  lowly  roof  of  honest  Peter  de  Groodt. 

The  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  Dolph  was  out  at  the 
haunted  house.  Every  thing  looked  just  as  he  ha*.]  left  it.  The 


THE    STORM-SHIP.  297 

fields  were  grass-grown  and  matted,  and  appeared  as  if  nobody 
had  traversed  them  since  his  departure.  With  palpitating  heart, 
he  hastened  to  the  well.  He  looked  down  into  it,  and  saw  that 
it  was  of  great  depth,  with  water  at  the  bottom.  He  had  pro- 
vided himself  with  a  strong  line,  such  as  the  fishermen  use  on 
the  banks  of  Newfoundland.  At  the  end  was  a  heavy  plummet 
and  a  large  fish-hook.  With  this  he  began  to  sound  the  bottom 
of  the  well,  and  to  angle  about  in  the  water.  The  water  was 
of  some  depth ;  there  was  also  much  rubbish,  stones  from  the 
top  having  fallen  in.  Several  times  his  hook  got  entangled, 
and  he  came  near  breaking  his  line.  Now  and  then,  too,  he 
hauled  up  mere  trash,  such  as  the  skull  of  a  horse,  an  iron 
hoop,  and  a  shattered  iron-bound  bucket.  He  had  now  been 
several  hours  employed  without  finding  anything  to  repay  his 
trouble,  or  to  encourage  him  to  proceed.  He  began  to  think 
himself  a  great  fool,  to  be  thus  decoyed  into  a  wild-goose  chase 
by  mere  dreams,  and  was  on  the  point  of  throwing  line  and  all 
into  the  well,  and  giving  up  all  further  angling. 

"  One  more  cast  of  the  line,"  said  he,  "  and  that  shall  be  the 
last."  As  he  sounded,  he  felt  the  plummet  slip,  as  it  were, 
through  the  interstices  of  loose  stones ;  and  as  he  drew  back 
the  line,  he  felt  that  the  hook  had  taken  hold  of  something 
heavy.  He  had  to  manage  his  line  with  great  caution,  lest  it 
should  be  broken  by  the  strain  upon  it.  By  degrees,  the  rub- 
bish which  lay  upon  the  article  he  had  hooked  gave  way ;  he 
drew  it  to  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  what  was  his  rapture 
at  seeing  something  like  silver  glittering  at  the  end  of  his  line  ! 
Almost  breathless  with  anxiety,  he  drew  it  up  to  the  mouth  of 
the  well,  surprised  at  its  great  weight,  and  fearing  every  instant 
that  his  hook  would  slip  from  its  hold,  and  his  prize  tumble 
again  to  the  bottom.  At  length  he  landed  it  saie  beside  the 
well.  It  was  a  great  silver  porringer,  of  an  ancient  form,  richly 
embossed,  and  with  armorial  bearings  engraved  on  its  side, 
similar  to  those  over  his  mother's  mantel-piece.  The  lid  was 
fastened  down  by  several  twists  of  wire  ;  Dolph  loosened  them 
with  a  trembling  hand,  and  on  lifting  the  lid,  behold !  the 
vessel  was  filled  with  broad  golden  pieces,  of  a  coinage  which 
he  had  never  seen  before !  It  was  evident  he  had  lit  on 
the  place  where  Killian  Vander  Spiegel  had  concealed  his 
treasure. 

Fearful  of  being  seen  by  some  straggler,  he  cautiously  retired, 
and  buried  his  pot  of  money  in  a  secret  place.  He  now  spread 
terrible  stories  about  the  haunted  house,  and  deterred  every 
one  from  approaching  it,  while  he  made  frequent  visits  to  it  in 


298  BEACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

stormy  days,  when  no  one  was  stirring  in  the  neighboring  fields ; 
though,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  did  not  care  to  venture  there  in  the 
dark.  For  once  in  his  life  he  was  diligent  and  industrious,  and 
followed  up  his  new  trade  of  angling  with  such  perseverance 
and  success,  that  in  a  little  while  he  had  hooked  up  wealth 
enough  to  make  him,  in  those  moderate  days,  a  rich  burgher 
for  life. 

It  would  be  tedious  to  detail  minutely  the  rest  of  this  story : 
—  to  tell  how  he  gradually  managed  to  bring  his  property  into 
use  without  exciting  surprise  and  inquiry  —  how  he  satisfied  all 
scruples  with  regard  to  retaining  the  property,  and  at  the  same 
time  gratified  his  own  feelings,  by  marrying  the  pretty  Marie 
Vander  Heyden  —  and  how  he  and  Heer  Antony  had  many  a 
merry  and  roving  expedition  together. 

I  must  not  omit  to  say,  however,  that  Dolph  took  his  mother 
home  to  live  with  him,  and  cherished  her  in  her  old  days.  The 
good  dame,  too,  had  the  satisfaction  of  no  longer  hearing  her 
son  made  the  theme  of  censure  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  grew  daily 
in  public  esteem  ;  everybody  spoke  well  of  him  and  his  wines, 
and  the  lordliest  burgomaster  was  never  known  to  decline  his 
invitation  to  dinner.  Dolph  often  related,  at  his  own  table, 
the  wicked  pranks  which  had  once  been  the  abhorrence  of  the 
town ;  but  they  were  now  considered  excellent  jokes,  and  the 
gravest  dignitary  was  fain  to  hold  his  sides  when  listening  to 
them.  No  one  was  more  struck  with  Dolph's  increasing  merit, 
than  his  old  master  the  doctor ;  and  so  forgiving  was  Dolph, 
that  he  absolutely  employed  the  doctor  as  his  family  physician, 
only  taking  care  that  his  prescriptions  should  be  always  thrown 
out  of  the  window.  His  mother  had  often  her  junto  of  old 
cronies,  to  take  a  snug  cup  of  tea  with  her  in  her  comfortable 
little  parlor ;  and  Peter  de  Groodt,  as  he  sat  by  the  fireside, 
with  one  of  her  grandchildren  on  his  knee,  would  many  a  time 
congratulate  her  upon  her  son  turning  out  so  great  a  man  ;  upou 
which  the  good  old  soul  would  wag  her  head  with  exultation, 
and  exclaim,  "Ah,  neighbor,  neighbor!  did  I  not  say  that 
Dolph  would  one  day  or  other  hold  up  his  head  with  the  best 
of  them?" 

Thus  did  Dolph  Heyliger  go  on,  cheerily  and  prosperously, 
growing  merrier  as  he  grew  older  and  wiser,  and  completely 
falsifying  the  old  proverb  about  money  got  over  the  devil's 
back  ;  for  he  made  good  use  of  his  wealth,  and  became  a  dis- 
tinguished citizen,  and  a  valuable  member  of  the  community. 
He  was  a  great  promoter  of  public  institutions,  such  as  beef- 
steak  societies  and  catch-clubs.  He  presided  at  all  public  din- 


TtiE   WEDDItfG.  299 

ners,  and  was  the  first  that  introduced  turtle  from  the  West 
Indies.  He  improved  the  breed  of  race-horses  and  game-cocks, 
and  was  so  great  a  patron  of  modest  merit,  that  any  one  who 
could  sing  a  good  song,  or  tell  a  good  story,  was  sure  to  find  a 
place  at  his  table. 

He  was  a  member,  too,  of  the  corporation,  made  several  laws 
for  the  protection  of  game  and  oysters,  and  bequeathed  to  the 
board  a  large  silver  punch-bowl,  made  out  of  the  identical  por- 
ringer before  mentioned,  and  which  is  in  the  possession  of  the 
corporation  to  this  very  day. 

Finally,  he  died,  in  a  florid  old  age,  of  an  apoplexy,  at  a  cor- 
poration feast,  and  was  buried  with  great  honors  in  the  yard  of 
the  little  Dutch  church  in  Garden-street,  where  his  tombstone 
may  still  be  seen,  with  a  modest  epitaph  in  Dutch,  by  his  friend 
Mynheer  Justus  Benson,  an  ancient  and  excellent  poet  of  the 
province. 

The  foregoing  tale  rests  on  better  authority  than  most  tales 
of  the  kind,  as  I  have  it  at  second-hand  from  the  lips  of  Dolph 
Heyliger  himself.  He  never  related  it  till  towards  the  latter 
part  of  his  life,  and  then  in  great  confidence,  (for  he  was  very 
discreet,)  to  a  few  of  his  particular  cronies  at  his  own  table 
over  a  supernumerary  bowl  of  punch  ;  and,  strange  as  the  hob- 
goblin parts  of  the  story  may  seem,  there  never  was  a  single 
doubt  expressed  on  the  subject  by  any  of  his  guests.  It  may 
not  be  amiss,  before  concluding,  to  observe  that,  in  addition  to 
his  other  accomplishments,  Dolph  Heyliger  was  noted  for  being 
the  ablest  drawer  of  the  long-bow  in  the  whole  province. 


THE  WEDDING. 

No  more,  no  more,  much  honor  aye  betide 
The  lofty  bridegroom  and  the  lovely  bride; 
That  all  of  their  succeeding  days  may  say, 
Each  day  appears  like  to  a  wedding-day.  —  BBAITHWAITB. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  doubts  and  demurs  of  Lady  Lilly- 
craft,  and  all  the  grave  objections  conjured  up  against  the 
month  of  ]^ay,  the  wedding  has  at  length  happily  taken 
place.  It  was  celebrated  at  the  village  church,  in  presence  of  a 
numerous  company  of  relatives  and  friends,  and  many  of  the 
tenantry.  The  Squire  must  needs  have  something  of  the  old 
ceremonies  observed  on  the  occasion;  so,  at  the  gate  of  the 


300  SRACEBRIDGS  HALL. 

church-yard,  several  little  girls  of  the  village,  dressed  iu  white, 
were  in  readiness  with  baskets  of  flowers,  which  they  strewed 
before  the  bride  ;  and  the  butler  bore  before  her  the  bride-cup, 
a  great  silver  embossed  bowl,  one  of  the  family  relics  from  the 
days  of  the  hard  drinkers.  This  was  filled  with  rich  wine,  and 
decorated  with  a  branch  of  rosemary,  tied  with  gay  ribbons, 
according  to  ancient  custom. 

"  Happy  is  the  bride  that  the  sun  shines  on,"  says  the  old 
proverb ;  and  it  was  as  sunny  and  auspicious  a  morning  as 
heart  could  wish.  The  bride  looked  uncommonly  beautiful ; 
but,  in  fact,  what  woman  does  not  look  interesting  on  her  wed- 
diug-day?  I  know  no  sight  more  charming  and  touching  than 
that  of  a  young  and  timid  bride,  in  her  robes  of  virgin  white, 
led  up  trembling  to  the  altar.  When  I  thus  behold  a  lovely 
girl,  in  the  tenderness  of  her  years,  forsaking  the  house  of  her 
fathers  and  the  home  of  her  childhood ;  and,  with  the  implicit 
confiding,  and  the  sweet  self-abandonment,  which  belong  to 
Woman,  giving  up  all  the  world  for  the  man  of  her  choice  :  when 
I  hear  her,  in  the  good  old  language  of  the  ritual,  yielding  her- 
self to  him  "for  better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in 
sickness  and  in  health,  to  love,  honor  and  obey,  till  death  us 
do  part,"  it  brings  to  my  mind  the  beautiful  and  affecting  self- 
devotion  of  Ruth:  "Whither  thou  goest  I  will  go,  and  where 
thou  lodgest  I  will  lodge ;  thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and 
thy  God  my  God." 

The  fair  Julia  was  supported  on  the  trying  occasion  by  Lady 
LJllycraft,  whose  heart  was  overflowing  with  its  wonted  sym- 
pathy in  all  matters  of  love  and  matrimony.  As  the  bride 
approached  the  altar,  her  face  would  be  one  moment  covered 
with  blushes,  and  the  next  deadly  pale  ;  and  she  seemed  almost 
ready  to  shrink  from  sight  among  her  female  companions. 

I  do  not  know  what  it  is  that  makes  every  one  serious,  and, 
as  it  were,  awe-struck,  at  a  marriage  ceremony  —  which  is  gen- 
erally considered  an  occasion  of  festivity  and  rejoicing.  As 
the  ceremony  was  performing,  I  observed  many  a  rosy  face 
among  the  country  girls  turn  pale,  and  I  did  not  see  a  smile 
throughout  the  church.  The  young  ladies  from  the  Hall  were 
almost  as  much  frightened  as  if  it  had  been  their  own  case, 
and  stole  many  a  look  of  sympathy  at  their  trembling  compan- 
ion. A  tear  stood  in  the  eye  of  the  sensitive  Lady  Lillycraft ; 
and  as  to  Phoebe  Wilkins,  who  was  present,  she  absolutely 
wept  and  sobbed  aloud  ;  but  it  is  hard  to  tell,  half  the  time, 
what  these  fond,  foolish  creatures  are  crying  about. 

The  captain,  too,  though  naturally  gay  and  unconcerned, 


THE   WEDDING.  301 

was  much  agitated  on  the  occasion;  and,  in  attempting  to  put  ) 
the   ring   upon  the   bride's   finger,   dropped   it  on   the   floor ;  / 
which  Lady  Lillycraft  has  since  assured  me  is  a  very  lucky 
omen.     Even  Master  Simon  had  lost  his  usual  vivacity,  and 
assumed  a  most  whimsically  solemn  face,  which  he  is  apt  to 
do  on  all  occasions  of  ceremony.     He  had  much  whispering 
with  the  parson  and  parish-clerk,  for  he  is  always  a  busy  per- 
sonage in  the  scene,  and  he  echoed  the  clerk's  amen  with  a 
solemnity  and  devotion  that  edified  the  whole  assemblage. 

The  moment,  however,  that  the  ceremony  was  over,  the 
transition  was  magical.  The  bride-cup  was  passed  round,  ac- 
cording to  ancient  usage,  for  the  company  to  drink  to  a  happy 
union  ;  every  one's  feelings  seemed  to  break  forth  from  re- 
straint. Master  Simon  had  a  world  of  bachelor  pleasantries  to 
utter ;  and  as  to  the  gallant  general,  he  bowed  and  cooed  about 
the  dulcet  Lady  Lillycraft,  like  a  mighty  cock-pigeon  about  his 
dame. 

The  villagers  gathered  in  the  church-yard,  to  cheer  the  happy 
couple  as  they  left  the  church ;  and  the  musical  tailor  had  mar- 
shalled his  band,  and  set  up  a  hideous  discord,  as  the  blushing 
and  smiling  bride  passed  through  a  lane  of  honest  peasantry  to 
her  carriage.  The  children  shouted,  and  threw  up  their  hats ; 
the  bells  rang  a  merry  peal,  that  set  all  the  crows  and  rooks 
flying  and  cawing  about  the  air,  and  threatened  to  bring  down 
the  battlements  of  the  old  tower ;  and  there  was  a  continual 
popping  off  of  rusty  firelocks  from  every  part  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

The  prodigal  son  distinguished  himself  on  the  occasion,  hav- 
ing hoisted  a  flag  on  the  top  of  the  school-house,  and  kept  the 
village  in  a  hubbub  from  sunrise,  with  the  sound  of  drum  and 
fife  and  pandean  pipe  ;  in  which  species  of  music  several  of  his 
scholars  are  making  wonderful  proficiency.  In  his  great  zeal, 
however,  he  had  nearly  done  mischief;  for  on  returning  from 
church,  the  horses  of  the  bride's  carriage  took  fright  from  the 
discharge  of  a  row  of  old  gun-barrels,  which  he  had  mounted  as 
a  park  of  artillery  in  front  of  the  school-house,  to  give  the  cap- 
tain a  military  salute  as  he  passed. 

The  day  passed  off  with  great  rustic  rejoicing.  Tables  were 
spread  under  the  trees  in  the  park,  where  all  the  peasantry  of 
the  neighborhood  were  regaled  with  roast-beef  and  plum- 
pudding  and  oceans  of  ale.  Ready-Money  Jack  presided  at 
one  of  the  tables,  and  became  so  full  of  good  cheer,  as  to  un- 
bend from  his  usual  gravity,  to  sing  a  song  out  of  all  tune,  and 
give  two  or  three  shouts  of  laughter,  that  almost  electrified  his 


302  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

neighbors,  like  so  many  peals  of  thunder.  The  schoolmaster 
and  the  apothecary  vied  with  each  other  in  making  speeches 
over  their  liquor ;  and  there  were  occasional  glees  and  musical 
performances  by  the  village  band,  that  must  have  frightened 
every  faun  and  dryad  from  the  park.  Even  old  Christy,  who 
had  got  on  a  new  dress  from  top  to  toe,  and  shone  in  all  the 
splendor  of  bright  leather  breeches  and  an  enormous  wedding 
favor  in  his  cap,  forgot  his  usual  crustiness,  became  inspired 
by  wine  and  wassail,  and  absolutely  danced  a  hornpipe  on  one 
of  the  tables,  with  all  the  grace  and  agility  of  a  manikin  hung 
upon  wires. 

Equal  gayet}*-  reigned  within  doors,  where  a  large  party  of 
friends  were  entertained.  Every  one  laughed  at  his  own 
pleasantry,  without  attending  to  that  of  his  neighbors.  Loads 
of  bride-cake  were  distributed.  The  young  ladies  were  all  busy 
in  passing  morsels  of  it  through  the  wedding-ring  to  dream  on, 
and  I  myself  assisted  a  little  boarding-school  girl  in  putting 
up  a  quantity  for  her  companions,  which  I  have  no  doubt  will 
set  all  the  little  heads  in  the  school  gadding,  for  a  week  at 
least. 

After  dinner,  all  the  company,  great  and  small,  gentle  and 
simple,  abandoned  themselves  to  the  dance :  not  the  modern 
quadrille,  with  its  graceful  gravity,  but  the  merry,  social,  old 
country-dance ;  the  true  dance,  as  the  Squire  says,  for  a  wed- 
ding occasion,  as  it  sets  all  the  world  jigging  in  couples,  hand 
in  hand,  and  makes  every  eye  and  every  heart  dance  merrily 
to  the  music.  According  to  frank  old  usage,  the  gentlefolks  of 
the  Hall  mingled  for  a  time  in  the  dance  of  the  peasantry,  who 
had  a  great  tent  erected  for  a  ball-room ;  and  I  think  I  never 
saw  Master  Simon  more  in  his  element,  than  when  figuring 
about  among  his  rustic  admirers,  as  master  of  the  ceremonies  ; 
and,  with  a  mingled  air  of  protection  and  gallantry,  leading  out 
the  quondam  Queen  of  May,  all  blushing  at  the  signal  honor 
conferred  upon  her. 

In  the  evening  the  whole  village  was  illuminated,  excepting 
the  house  of  the  radical,  who  has  not  shown  his  face  during 
the  rejoicings.  There  was  a  display  of  fireworks  at  the 
school-house,  got  up  by  the  prodigal  son,  which  had  well-nigh 
set  fire  to  the  building.  The  Squire  is  so  much  pleased  with 
the  extraordinary  services  of  this  last-mentioned  worthy,  that 
he  talks  of  enrolling  him  in  his  list  of  valuable  retainers,  and 
promoting  him  to  some  important  post  on  the  estate ;  per- 
adventure  to  be  falconer,  if  the  hawks  can  ever  be  brought  into 
proper  training. 


THE    WEDDING.  303 

There  is  a  well-known  old  proverb,  which  says  "  one  wedding 
makes  many,"  —  or  something  to  the  same  purpose ;  and  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  it  holds  good  in  the  present  instance. 
I  have  seen  several  flirtations  among  the  voung  people  brought 
together  on  this  occasion ;  and  a  great  deal  of  strolling  about 
in  pairs,  among  the  retired  walks  and  blossoming  shrubberies 
of  the  old  garden  :  and  if  groves  were  really  given  to  whisper- 
ing, as  poets  would  fain  make  us  believe,  Heaven  knows  what 
love  tales  the  grave-looking  old  trees  about  this  venerable 
country-seat  might  blab  to  the  world. 

The  general,  too,  has  waxed  very  zealous  in  his  devotions 
\  within  the  last  few  days,  as  the  time  of  her  ladyship's  depart- 
ure approaches.  I  observed  him  casting  many  a  tender  look 
at  her  during  the  wedding  dinner,  while  the  courses  were 
changing ;  though  he  was  always  liable  to  be  interrupted  in 
his  adoration  by  the  appearance  of  any  new  delicacy.  The 
general,  in  fact,  has  arrived  at  that  time  of  life  when  the  heart 
and  the  stomach  maintain  a  kind  of  balance  of  power,  and 
when  a  man  is  apt  to  be  perplexed  in  his  affections  between  a 
fine  woman  and  a  truffled  turkey.  Her  ladyship  was  certainly 
rivalled,  through  the  whole  of  the  first  course,  by  a  dish  of 
stewed  carp ;  and  there  was  one  glance,  which  was  evidently 
intended  to  be  a  point-blank  shot  at  her  heart,  and  could 
scarcely  have  failed  to  effect  a  practicable  breach,  had  it  not 
unluckily  been  directed  away  to  a  tempting  breast  of  lamb,  in 
which  it  immediately  produced  a  formidable  incision. 

Thus  did  this  faithless  general  go  on,  coquetting  during  the 
whole  dinner,  and  committing  an  infidelity  with  every  new  dish  ; 
until,  in  the  end,  he  was  so  overpowered  by  the  attentions  he 
had  paid  to  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl;  to  pastry,  jelly,  cream,  and 
blanc-mange,  that  he  seemed  to  sink  within  himself :  his  eyes 
swam  beneath  their  lids,  and  their  fire  was  so  much  slackened, 
that  he  could  no  longer  discharge  a  single  glance  that  would 
reach  across  the  table.  Upon  the  whole,  I  fear  the  general  ate 
himself  into  as  much  disgrace,  at  this  memorable  dinner,  as  I 
have  seen  him  sleep  himself  into  on  a  former  occasion. 

I  am  told,  moreover,  that  young  Jack  Tibbets  was  so  touched 
by  the  wedding  ceremony,  at  whicTThewas  present,  and  so 
captivated  by  the  sensibility  of  poor  Phoebe  "Wilkins,  who  cer- 
tainly looked  all  the  better  for  her  tears,  that  he  had  a  recon- 
ciliation with  her  that  very  day,  after  dinner,  in  one  of  the 
groves  of  the  park,  and  danced  with  her  in  the  evening ;  to  the 
complete  confusion  of  all  Dame  Tibbets'  domestic  politics.  I 
met  them  walking  together  in  the  park,  shortly  after  the  recon- 


304  3RACBBEIDGE   HALL. 

ciliation  must  have  taken  place.  Young  Jack  carried  himself 
gayly  and  manfully ;  but  Phoebe  hung  her  head,  blushing,  as  I 
approached.  However,  just  as  she  passed  me,  and  dropped  a 
courtesy,  I  caught  a  shy  gleam  of  her  eye  from  under  her  bon- 
net ;  but  it  was  immediately  cast  down  again.  I  saw  enough  in 
that  single  gleam,  and  in  the  involuntary  smile  dimpling  about 
her  rosy  lips,  to  feel  satisfied  that  the  little  gypsy's  heart  was 
happy  again. 

What  is  more,  Lady  Lillycraft,  with  her  usual  benevolence 
and  zeal  in  all  matters  of  this  tender  nature,  on  hearing  of  the 
reconciliation  of  the  lovers,  undertook  the  critical  task  of  break- 
ing the  matter  to  Ready-Money  Jack.  She  thought  there  was 
no  time  like  the  present,  and  attacked  the  sturdy  old  yeoman 
that  very  evening  in  the  park,  while  his  heart  was  yet  lifted  up 
with  the  Squire's  good  cheer.  Jack  was  a  little  surprised  at 
being  drawn  aside  by  her  ladyship,  but  was  not  to  be  flurried 
by  such  an  honor :  he  was  still  more  surprised  by  the  nature  of 
her  communication,  and  by  this  first  intelligence  of  an  affair 
that  had  been  passing  under  his  eye.  He  listened,  however, 
•with  his  usual  gravity,  as  her  ladyship  represented  the  advan- 
tages of  the  match,  the  good  qualities  of  the  girl,  and  the  dis- 
tress which  she  had  lately  suffered :  at  length  his  eye  began  to 
kindle,  and  his  hand  to  play  with  the  head  of  his  cudgel.  Lady 
Lillycraft  saw  that  something  in  the  narrative  had  gone  wrong, 
and  hastened  to  mollify  his  rising  ire  by  reiterating  the  soft- 
hearted Phoebe's  merit  and  fidelity,  and  her  great  unhappiness : 
when  old  Ready-Money  suddenly  interrupted  her  by  exclaiming, 
that  if  Jack  did  not  marry  the  wench,  he'd  break  every  bone  in 
his  body !  The  match,  therefore,  is  considered  a  settled  thing : 
Dame  Tibbets  and  the  housekeeper  have  made  friends,  and 
drunk  tea  together ;  and  Phoebe  has  again  recovered  her  good 
looks  and  goods  spirits,  and  is  carolling  from  morning  till  night 
like  a  lark. 

But  the  most  whimsical  caprice  of  Cupid  is  one  that  I  should 
be  almost  afraid  to  mention,  did  I  not  know  that  I  was  writing 
for  readers  well  experienced  in  the  waywardness  of  this  most 
mischievous  deity.  The  morning  after  the  wedding,  therefore, 
while  Lady  Lillycraft  was  making  preparations  for  her  depart- 
ure, and  audience  was  requested  by  her  immaculate  handmaid, 
Mis.  Hannah,  who,  with  much  primming  of  the  mouth,  and 
many  maidenly  hesitations,  requested  leave  to  stay  behind,  and 
that  Lady  Lillycraft  would  supply  her  place  with  some  other 
servant.  Her  ladyship  was  astonished:  "What!  Hannah  go- 
ing to  quit  her,  that  had  lived  with  her  so  long !  " 


THE   WEDDING.  8U5 

"  Why,  one  could  not  help  it ;  one  must  settle  in  life  some 
time  or  other." 

The  good  lad}7  was  still  lost  in  amazement ;  at  length,  the 
secret  was  gasped  from  the  dry  lips  of  the  maiden  gentlewoman  : 
44  She  had  been  some  time  thinking  of  changing  her  condition, 
and  at  length  had  given  her  word,  last  evening,  to  Mr.  Christy, 
the  huntsman." 

How,  or  when,  or  where  this  singular  courtship  had  been 
carried  on,  I  have  not  been  able  to  learn ;  nor  how  she  has  been 
able,  with  the  vinegar  of  her  disposition,  to  soften  the  stony 
heart  of  old  Nimrod :  so,  however,  it  is,  and  it  has  astonished 
every  one.  With  all  her  ladyship's  love  of  match-making,  this 
last  fume  of  Hymen's  torch  has  been  too  much  for  her.  She 
has  endeavored  to  reason  with  Mrs.  Hannah,  but  all  in  vain  ; 
her  mind  was  made  up,  and  she  grew  tart  on  the  least  contradic- 
tion. Lady  Lillycraft  applied  to  the  Squire  for  his  interference. 
u  She  did  not  know  what  she  should  do  without  Mrs.  Hannah, 
she  had  been  used  to  have  her  about  her  so  long  a  time." 

The  Squire,  on  the  contrary,  rejoiced  in  the  match,  as  reliev- 
ing the  good  lady  from  a  kind  of  toilet-tyrant,  under  whose 
sway  she  had  suffered  for  years.  Instead  of  thwarting  the 
affair,  therefore,  he  has  given  it  his  full  countenance  ;  and  de- 
clares that  he  will  set  up  the  young  couple  in  one  of  the  best 
cottages  on  his  estate.  The  approbation  of  the  Squire  has  been 
followed  by  that  of  the  whole  household  ;  they  all  declare,  that 
if  ever  matches  are  really  made  in  heaven,  this  must  have  been  ; 
for  that  old  Christy  and  Mrs.  Hannah  were  as  evidently  formed 
to  be  linked  together,  as  ever  were  pepper-box  and  vinegar- 
cruet. 

As  soon  as  this  matter  was  arranged,  Lady  Lillycraft  took 
her  leave  of  the  family  at  the  Hall ;  taking  with  her  the  captain 
and  his  blushing  bride,  who  are  to  pass  the  honeymoon  with 
her.  Master  Simon  accompanied  them  on  horseback,  and  in- 
deed means  to  ride  on  ahead  to  make  preparations.  The  gen' 
eral,  who  was  fishing  in  vain  for  an  invitation  to  her  seat, 
handed  her  ladyship  into  her  carriage  with  a  heavy  sigh ;  upon 
which  his  bosom  friend,  Master  Simon,  who  was  just  mounting 
his  horse,  gave  me  a  knowing  wink,  made  an  abominably  wry 
face,  and,  leaning  from  his  saddle,  whispered  loudly  in  m}r  ear, 
"It  won't  do!  "  Then,  putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  away  he 
cantered  off.  The  general  stood  for  some  time  waving  his  hat 
after  the  carriage  as  it  rolled  down  the  avenue,  until  he  was 
seized  with  a  fit  of  sneezing,  from  exposing  his  head  to  the  cool 
breeze.  I  observed  that  he  returned  rather  thoughtfully  to  the 


306  BEACEBEIDGE  HALL. 

house ;  whistling  softly  to  himself,  with  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  and  an  exceedingly  dubious  air. 

The  company  have  now  almost  all  taken  their  departure ;  I 
have  determined  to  do  the  same  to-morrow  morning  ;  and  I  hope 
my  reader  may  not  think  that  I  have  already  lingered  too  long 
at  the  Hall.  I  have  been  tempted  to  do  so,  however,  because  I 
thought  I  had  lit  upon  one  of  the  retired  places  where  there  are 
yet  some  traces  to  be  met  with  of  old  English  character.  A 
little  while  hence,  and  all  these  will  probably  have  passed  away. 
Ready-Money  Jack  will  sleep  with  his  fathers  :  the  good  Squire, 
and  all  his  peculiarities,  will  be  buried  in  the  neighboring  church. 
The  old  Hall  will  be  modernized  into  a  fashionable  counts-seat, 
or,  peradventure,  a  manufactory.  The  park  will  be  cut  up  into 
petty  farms  and  kitchen-gardens.  A  daily  coach  will  run 
through  the  village  ;  it  will  become,  like  all  other  commonplace 
villages,  thronged  with  coachmen,  post-boys,  tipplers,  and  poli- 
ticians :  and  Christmas,  May-day,  and  all  the  other  hearty 
merry-makings  of  the  "  good  old  times  "  will  be  forgotten. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  FAREWELL. 

And  BO  without  more  circumstance  at  all, 

I  hold  it  fit  that  we  shake  bauds  and  part.  —  Hamlet. 

HAVING  taken  leave  of  the  Hall  and  its  inmates,  and  brought 
the  history  of  my  visit  to  something  like  a  close,  there  seems  to 
remain  nothing  further  than  to  make  my  bow,  and  exit.  It  is 
my  foible,  however,  to  get  on  such  companionable  terms  with 
my  reader  in  the  course  of  a  work,  that  it  really  costs  me  some 
pain  to  part  with  him  ;  and  I  am  apt  to  keep  him  by  the  hand, 
and  have  a  few  farewell  words  at  the  end  of  my  last  volume. 

When  I  cast  an  eye  back  upon  the  work  I  am  just  concluding, 
I  cannot  but  be  sensible  how  full  it  must  be  of  errors  and  im- 
parfections  :  indeed,  how  should  it  be  otherwise,  writing  as  I  do 
about  subjects  and  scenes  with  which,  as  a  stranger,  I  am  but 
partially  acquainted?  Many  will  doubtless  find  cause  to  smile 
at  very  obvious  blunders  which  I  may  have  made ;  and  many 
may,  perhaps,  be  offended  at  what  they  may  conceive  preju- 
diced representations.  Some  will  think  I  might  have  said  much 
more  on  such  subjects  as  may  suit  their  peculiar  tastes  ;  whilst 
others  will  think  I  had  done  wiser  to  have  left  those  subjects 
entirely  alone. 


THE   AUTHORS    FAREWELL.  307 

It  will  probably  be  said,  too,  by  some,  that  I  view  England 
with  a  partial  eye.  Perhaps  I  do-rfoFTcan  never  forget  that "~"" 
it  is  my  "father  land."  And  yet,  the  circumstances  under 
which  I  have  viewed  it  have  by  no  means  been  such  as  were 
calculated  to  produce  favorable  impressions.  For  the  greater 
part  of  the  time  that  I  have  resided  in  it,  I  have  lived  almost 
unknowing  and  unknown  ;  seeking  no  favors,  and  receiving 
none :  "  a  stranger  and  a  sojourner  in  the  land,"  and  subject  to 
all  the  chills  and  neglects  that  are  the  common  lot  of  the 
stranger. 

When  I  consider  these  circumstances,  and  recollect  how  often 
I  have  taken  up  my  pen,  with  a  mind  ill  at  ease,  and  spirits 
much  dejected  and  cast  down,  I  cannot  but  think  I  was  not 
likely  to  err  on  the  favorable  side  of  the  picture.  The  o;  iu- 
ions  I  have  given  of  English  character  have  been  the  result  of 
much  quk-t,  dispassionate,  and  varied  observation.  It  is  a 
character  not  to  be  hastily  studied,  for  it  always  puts  on  a  re- 
pulsive and  ungracious  aspect  to  a  stranger.  Let  those,  then, 
who  condemn  my  representations  as  too  favorable,  observe  this 
people  as  closely  and  deliberately  as  I  have  done,  and  they  will, 
probably,  change  their  opinion.  Of  one  thing,  at  any  rate,  I 
am  certain,  that  I  have  spoken  honestly  and  sincerely,  from  the 
convictl  ns  of  my  mind,  ami  the  dictates  of, .my  heart.  When  I 
first  published  my  former  writings,  it  was  with  no  hope  of  gain- 
ing-fftrtSf  in  English  eyes,  for  1  little  thought  they  were  to  be- 
come current  out  of  my  own  country  :  and  had  I  merely  sought 
popularity  among  rny  own  countrymen,  I  should  have  taken  a 
more  direct  and  obvious  wa}*,  by  gratifying  rather  than  rebuk- 
ing the  angry  feelings  then  prevalent  against  England. 

And  here  let  me  acknowledge  my  warm,  mv  thankful  feelings, 
at  the  effect  produced  by  one  of  my  trivial  lucubrations.  I 
allude  to  the  essay  in  the  Sketch-Book,  on  the  subject  of  the 
literary  feuds  between  England  and  America.  I  cannot  express 
the  heartfelt  delight  I  have  experienced,  at  the  unexpected 
sympathy  and  approbation  with  which  those  remarks  have  been 
received  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic.  I  speak  this  not  from 
any  paltry  feelings  of  gratified  vanity ;  for  I  attribute  the  effect 
to  no  merit  of  my  pen.  The  paper  in  question  was  brief  and 
casual,  and  the  ideas  it  conveyed  were  simple  and  obvious. 
"It  was  the  cause:  it  was  the  cause"  alone.  There  was  a 
predisposition  on  the  part  of  my  readers  to  be  favorably  affected. 
My  countrymen  responded  in  heart  to  the  filial  feelings  I  had 
avowed  in  their  name  towards  the  parent  country :  and  there 
was  a  generous  sympathy  in  every  English  bosom  towards  a 


308  BRACEBE1DGE  HALL. 

solitary  individual,  lifting  up  his  voice  in  a  strange  land,  to 
vindicate  the  injured  character  of  his  nation.  There  are  some 
causes  so  sacred  as  to  carry  with  them  an  irresistible  appeal  to 
every  virtuous  bosom ;  and  he  needs  but  little  power  of  elo- 
quence, who  defends  the  honor  of  his  wife,  his  mother,  or  his 
counti-y. 

I  hail,  therefore,  the  success  of  that  brief  paper,  as  showing 
how  much  good  may  be  done  by  a  kind  word,  however  feeble, 
when  spoken  in  season  —  as  showing  iiow  uiuch  dormant  good- 
feeling  actually  exists  in  each  country,  towards  the  other,  which 
only  wants  the  slightest  spark  to  kindle  it  into  a  genial  flame  — 
as  showing,  in  fact,  what  I  have  all  along  believed  and  asserted, 
that  the  two  nations  would  grow  together  in  esteem  and  amity, 
if  meddling  and  malignant  spirits  would  but  throw  by  their  mis- 
chievous pens,  and  leave  kindred  hearts  to  the  kindly  impulses 
of  nature. 

I  once  more  assert,  and  I  assert  it  with  increased  conviction 
of  its  truth,  that  there  exists,  among  the  great  majority  of  my 
countrymen,  a  favorable  feeling  toward  England.  1  repeat  this 
assertion,  because  1  think  it  a  truth  that  cannot  too  often  be 
reiterated,  and  because  it  lias  met  with  some  contradiction. 
Among  all  the  liberal  and  enlightened  minds  of  my  countrymen, 
among  all  those  which  eventually  give  a  tone  to  national  opinion, 
there  exists  a  cordial  desire  to  be  on  terms  of  courtesy  and 
friendship.  But  at  the  same  time,  there  exists  in  those  very 
minds  a  distrust  of  reciprocal  good-will  on  the  part  of  England. 
They  have  been  rendered  morbidly  sensitive  by  the  attacks 
made  upon  their  country  bv  the  English  press  ;  and  their  occa- 
sional irritability  on  this  subject  has  been  misinterpreted  into  a 
settled  and  unnatural  hostility. 

For  my  part,  I  consider  this  jealous  sensibility  as  belonging 
to  generous  natures.  I  should  look  upon  my  countrymen  as 
fallen  indeed  from  that  independence  of  spirit  which  is  their 
birth-gift ;  as  fallen  indeed  from  that  pride  of  character  which 
they  inherit  from  the  proud  nation  from  which  they  sprung, 
could  they  tamely  sit  down  under  the  infliction  of  contumely 
and  insult.  Indeed,  the  very  impatience  which  they  show  as 
to  the  misrepresentations  of  the  press,  proves  their  respect  for 
English  opinion,  and  their  desire  for  English  amity ;  for  there 
is  never  jealousy  where  there  is  not  strong  regard. 

It  is  easy  to  say,  that  these  attacks  are  all  the  effusions  of 
worthless  scribblers,  and  treated  with  silent  contempt  by  the 
nation  ;  but,  alas !  the  slanders  of  the  scribbler  travel  abroad, 
and  the  silent  contempt  of  the  nation  is  only  known  at  home. 


THE  AUTHOR'S   FAREWELL.  309 

With  England,  then,  it  remains,  as  I  have  formerly  asserted, 
to  promote  a  mutual  spirit  of  conciliation  ;  she  has  but  to  hold 
the  language  of  friendship  and  respect,  and  she  is  secure  of  the 
good-will  of  every  American  bosom. 

In  expressing  these  sentiments,  I  would  utter  nothing  that 
should  commit  the  proper  spirit  of  my  countrymen.  We  seek 
no  boon  at  England's  hands  :  we  ask  nothing  as  a  favor.  Her 
friendship  is  not  necessary,  nor  would  her  hostility  be  dangerous 
to  our  well-being.  We  ask  nothing  from  abroad  that  we  cannot 
reciprocate.  But  with  respect  to  England,  we  have  a  warm 
feeling  of  the  heart,  the  glow  of  consanguinity  that  still  lingers 
in  our  blood.  Interest  apart — past  differences  forgotten  —  we 
extend  the  hand  of  old  relationship.  We  merely  ask,  do  not 
estrange  us  from  you  ;  do  not  destroy  the  ancient  tie  of  blood  ;  do 
not  let  scoffers  and  slanderers  drive  a  kindred  nation  from  your 
side  ;  we  would  fain  be  friends  ;  do  not  compel  us  to  be  enemies. 

There  needs  no  better  rally  ing-ground  for  international  amity, 
than  that  furnished  by  an  eminent  English  writer :  "  There  is," 
says  he,  "  a  sacred  bond  between  us  of  blood  and  of  language, 
which  no  circumstances  can  break.  Our  literature  must  always 
be  theirs ;  and  though  their  laws  are  no  longer  the  same  as 
ours,  we  have  the  same  Bible,  and  we  address  our  common 
Father  in  the  same  prayer.  Nations  are  too  ready  to  admit 
that  they  have  natural  enemies  ;  why  should  they  be  less  willing 
to  believe  that  they  have  natural  friends?  "  J 

To  the  magnanimous  spirits  of  both  countries  must  we  trust 
to  carry  such  a  natural  alliance  of  affection  into  full  effect.  To 
pens  more  powerful  than  mine,  I  leave  the  noble  task  of  pro- 
moting tlie-€anse-T>f~  national  amity.  To  the  intelligent  and 
enlightened  of  my  own  country,  I  address  my  parting  voice, 
entreating  them  to  show  themselves  superior  to  the  petty  attacks 
of  the  ignorant  and  the  worthless,  and  still  to  look  with  dispas- 
sionate and  philosophic  eye  to  the  moral  character  of  England, 
as  the  intellectual  source  of  our  rising  greatness  ;  while  I  appeal 
to  every  generous-minded  Englishman  from  the  slanders  which 
disgrace  the  press,  insult  the  understanding,  and  belie  the  mag- 
nanimity of  his  country :  and  I  invite  him  to  look  to  America, 
as  to  a  kindred  nation,  worthy  of  its  origin ;  giving,  in  the 
healthy  vigor  of  its  growth,  the  best  of  comments  on  its  parent 
stock  ;  and  reflecting,  in  the  dawning  brightness  of  its  fame, 
the  moral  effulgence  of  British  glory. 

1  From  an  article  (said  to  be  by  Robert  Southey,  Esq.)  published  in  the  Quarterly 
Review.  It  is  to  be  lamented  that  that  publication  should  BO  often  forget  the  generou* 
text  here  given ! 


310  BBACEBEIDGE    HALL. 

I  am  sure  that  such  an  appeal  will  not  be  made  in  vain.  In- 
deed, 1  have  noticed,  for  some  time  past,  an  essential  change 
in  English  sentiment  with  regard  to  America.  In  parliament, 
that  fountain-head  of  public  opinion,  there  seems  to  be  an 
emulation,  on  both  sides  of  the  house,  in  holding  the  language 
of  courtt-sy  and  friendship.  The  same  spirit  is  daily  becoming 
more  and  more  prevalent  in  good  society.  There  is  a  growing 
curiosity  concerning  my  country ;  a  craving  desire  for  correct 
information,  that  cannot  fail  to  lead  to  a  favorable  under- 
standing. The  scoffer,  I  trust,  has  had  his  day;  the  time  of 
the  slanderer  is  gone  by ;  the  ribald  jokes,  the  stale  common- 
places, which  have  so  long  passed  current  when  America  was 
the  theme,  are  now  banished  to  the  ignorant  and  the  vulgar, 
or  only  perpetuated  by  the  hireling  scribblers  and  traditional 
jesters  of  the  press.  The  intelligent  and  high-minded  now 
pride  themselves  upon  making  America  a  study. 

But  however  my  feelings  may  be  understood  or  reciprocated 
on  either  side_of_-the  Atlantic,  1 4itter  them  without  reserve,  for 

,  I  have  ever  found  that  to  speak  frankly  is  to  speak  safely.  I 
-=4ffl~n«t^e-9aBguiue a»-  tcr'believeTh'at  t£iil3we-Tra,LiuuTai'e^ver 
to  be  bound  together  by  any  romantic  ties  of  feeling ;  but  I 
believe  that  much  may  be  done  towards  keeping  alive  cordial 
sentiments,  were  every  well-disposed  mind  occasionally  to  throw 
itt-'a  simple  word  of  kindness.  If  I  have,  indeed,  produced 
any  such  effect  by  my  writings,  it  will  be  a  soothing  reflection 
to  me,  that  for  once,  in  the  course  of  a  rather  negligent  life, 
I  have  been  useful ;  that  for  once,  by  the  casual  exercise  of  a 
pen  which  has  been  in  general  but  too  unprofitably  employed, 

/  I  have  awakened  a  chord  of  sympathy  between  the  land  of  my 
fathers  and  the  dear  land  that  gave  me  birth. 

In  the  spirit  of  these  sentiments,  I  now  take  my  farewell  of 
the  paternal  soil.  With  anxious  eye  do  I  behold  the  clouds  of 

x^ouht   and   difficulty  that  lower  over  it,    and  earnestly   do   I 

\\hope  they  may  all  clear  up  into  serene  and  settled  sunshine. 

Vn  bidding  this  last  adieu,  my  heart  is  filled  with  fond,  yet 
melancholy  emotions  ;  and  still  I  linger,  and  still,  like  a  child 
leaving  the  venerable  abodes  of  his  forefathers,  I  turn  to  breathe 
forth  a  filial  benediction :  Peace  be  within  thy  walls,  O  Eng- 
land !  and  plenteousness  within  thy  palaces ;  for  my  brethren 
and  my  companions'  sake  I  will  now  say,  Peace  be  within  thee  ! 

NOTB.  —  The  reader  who  has  perused  a  little  work  published  by  the  author  several 
years  subsequently  to  Bracebridge  Hall,  narrating  a  visit  to  Abbotsford,  will  detect  the 
origin  of  the  nbove  anecdote  in  the  conferences  between  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  his  right- 
hand  man,  Tommy  Purdie.  Indeed,  the  author  is  indebted  for  several  of  his  traits  of  the 
Squire  to  observations  made  on  Sir  Walter  Scott  during  that  visit;  though  he  had  to  be 
cautious  and  sparing  in  drawing  from  that  source.  See  p.  157. 


LIFE 

OP 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


PEEFACE. 


IN  the  course  of  a  revised  edition  of  my  works  I  have  come 
to  a  biographical  sketch  of  Goldsmith,  published  several  years 
since.  It  was  written  hastily,  as  introductory  to  a  selection 
from  his  writings  ;  and,  though  the  facts  contained  in  it  were 
collected  from  various  sources,  I  was  chiefly  indebted  for  them 
to  the  voluminous  work  of  Mr.  James  Prior,  who  had  collected 
and  collated  the  most  minute  particulars  of  the  poet's  history 
with  unwearied  research  and  scrupulous  fidelity ;  but  had  ren- 
dered them,  as  I  thought,  in  a  form  too  cumbrous  and  overlaid 
with  details  and  disquisitions,  and  matters  uninteresting  to  the 
general  reader. 

When  I  was  about  of  late  to  revise  my  biographical  sketch, 
preparatory  to  republication,  a  volume  was  put  into  my  hands, 
recently  given  to  the  public  by  Mr.  John  Forster,  of  the  Inner 
Temple,  who,  likewise  availing  himself  of  the  labors  of  the  in- 
defatigable Prior,  and  of  a  few  new  lights  since  evolved,  has 
produced  a  biography  of  the  poet,  executed  with  a  spirit,  a 
feeling,  a  grace  and  an  eloquence,  that  leave  nothing  to  be  de- 
sired. Indeed  it  would  have  been  presumption  in  me  to  under- 
take the  subject  after  it  had  been  thus  felicitously  treated,  did 
I  not  stand  committed  by  my  previous  sketch.  That  sketch 
now  appeared  too  meagre  and  insufficient  to  satisfy  public  de- 
mand ;  yet  it  had  to  take  its  place  in  the  revised  series  of  my 
works  unless  something  more  satisfactory  could  be  substituted. 
Under  these  circumstances  I  have  again  taken  up  the  subject, 
and  gone  into  it  with  more  fulness  than  formerly,  omitting 
none  of  the  facts  which  I  considered  illustrative  of  the  life  and 
character  of  the  poet,  and  giving  them  in  as  graphic  a  style  as 
I  could  command.  Still  the  hurried  manner  in  which  I  have 
had  to  do  this  amidst  the  pressure  of  other  claims  on  my  atten- 
tion, and  with  the  press  dogging  at  my  heels,  has  prevented 
me  from  giving  some  parts  of  the  subject  the  thorough  han- 


4  PREFACE. 

dling  I  could  have  wished.  Those  who  would  like  to  see  it 
treated  still  more  at  large,  with  the  addition  of  critical  disqui- 
oitions  and  the  advantage  of  collateral  facts,  would  do  well  to 
refer  themselves  to  Mr.  Prior's  circumstantial  volumes,  or  to 
the  elegant  and  discursive  pages  of  Mr.  Forster. 

For  my  own  part,  I  can  only  regret  my  short-comings  in 
what  to  me  is  a  labor  of  love  ;  for  it  is  a  tribute  of  gratitude  to 
the  memory  of  an  author  whose  writings  were  the  delight  of 
my  childhood,  and  have  been  a  source  of  enjoyment  to  me 
throughout  life  ;  and  to  whom,  of  all  others,  I  may  address  the 
beautiful  apostrophe  of  Dante  to  Virgil : 

"  Tu  se'  lo  mio  maestro,  e  '1  mio  nutore : 
Tu  se'  solo  colui,  da  cu'  io  tolei 
Lo  bello  stile,  che  m'  ha  fatto  onore." 

W.I. 

SUNNYSIDB,  Aug.  1, 1849. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Birth  and  Parentage  — Characteristics  of  the  Goldsmith  Race  —  Poetical  Birthplace 

—  Goblin  House  — Scenes  of  Boyhood  —  Lissoy  —  Picture  of  a  Country  Parson 

—  Goldsmith's  Schoolmistress  ^>»yrne,  the  Village  Schoolmaster  —  Goldsmith's 
Hornpipe  and  Epigram  — Uncle  Contarine  — School  Studies  and  School  Sports  — 
Mistakes  of  a  Night 11 

CHAPTER  II. 

Improvident  Marriages  in  the  Goldsmith  Family  —  Goldsmith  at  the  University 

—  Situation  of  a  Si  zer  — Tyranny  of  Wilder,  the  Tutor  —  Pecuniary  Straits  — 
Street  Ballads— College  Riot  — Gallows  Walsh  —  College  Prize  — A  Dance  In- 
terrupted 20 

CHAPTER  in. 

Goldsmith  rejected  by  the  Bishop  —  Second  Sally  to  see  the  World  — Takes  Pas- 
L  sage  for  America  — Ship  sails  without  him  — Return  on  Fiddle-Back  —  A  Hos- 
pitable Friend  —  The  Counsellor     30 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Sallies  forth  as  a  Law  Student  —  Stumbles  at  the  Outset  —  Cousin  Jane  and  the 
Valentine  —  A  Family  Oracle  — Sallies  forth  as  a  Student  of  Medicine— Hocus- 
pocus  of  a  Boarding-House — Transformations  of  a  Leg  of  Mutton  —  The  Mock 
Ghost  — Sketches  of  Scotland— Trials  of  Toryism  — A  Poet's  Purse  for  a  Conti- 
nental Tour 3S 

CHAPTER  V. 

The  Agreeable  Fellow-Passengers  —  Risks  from  Friends  picked  up  by  the  Wayside 

—  Sketches  of  Holland  and  the  Dutch  — Shifts  while  a  Poor  Student  at  Leyden 

—  The  Tulip  Speculation  —  The  Provident  Flute  —  Sojourn  at  Paris  — Sketch  of 
Voltaire— Travelling  Shifts  of  a  Philosophic  Vagabond 44 


6  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

PA3B 

Landing  in  England  — Shifts  of  a  Man  without  Money— The  Pestle  and  Mortar— 
Theatricals  in  a  Barn  —  Launch  upon  London  —  A  City  Night  Scene  —  Struggles 
with  Penury  —Miseries  of  a  Tutor  — A  Doctor  in  the  Suburb  — Poor  Practice  and 
Second-hand  Finery  — A  Tragedy  in  Embryo  —  Project  of  the  Written  Moun- 
tains   51 

CHAPTER  VII. 

Life  of  a  Pedagogue  —  Kindness  to  Schoolboys  — Pertness  in  Return— Expensive 
Charities  —  The  Griffiths  and  the  "  Monthly  Review  "  —  Toils  of  a  Literary  Hack 
—  Rupture  with  the  Griffiths 56 

CHAPTER  Vm. 

Newbery,  of  Picture-book  Memory  —  How  to  keep  up  Appearances — Miseries  of 
Authorship— A  Poor  Relation  — Letter  to  Hodson 59 

CHAPTER  IX. 

Hackney  Authorship  — Thought?  of  Literary  Suicide  —  Return  to  Peckham  — Ori- 
ental Projects  —  Literary  Enterprise  to  raise  Funds  —  Letter  to  Edward  Wells  — 
To  Robert  Bryanton  —  Death  of  Uncle  Contarine  —  Letter  to  Cousin  Jane  .  .  .  64 

CHAPTER  X. 

Oriental  Appointment  —  And  Disappointment  —  Examination  at  the  College  of 
Surgeons  —  How  to  procure  a  Suit  of  Clothes  —  Fresh  Disappointment — A  Tale 
of  Distress— The  Suit  of  Clothes  in  Pawn  — Punishment  for  doing  an  Act  of 
Charity  — Gayeties  of  Green  Arbor  Court  —Letter  to  his  Brother  — Life  of  Vol- 
taire— Scroggin,  an  Attempt  at  Mock-heroic  Poetry 70 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Publication  of  "The  Inquiry "— Attacked  by  Griffiths'  Review  —  Kenrick  the 
Literary  Ishmaelite  — Periodical  Literature  —  Goldsmith's  Essays  —  Garrick  as  a 
Manager— Smollett  and  his  Schemes  —  Change  of  Lodgings  — The  Robin  Hood 
Club 82 

CHAPTER  XH. 

New  Lodgings  —  Visits  of  Ceremony  —  Hangers-on  —  Pilkington  and  the  White 
Mouse  — Introduction  to  Dr.  Johnson  —  Davies  and  his  Bookshop  — Pretty  Mrs. 
Daviea—Foote  and  his  Projects  — Criticism  of  the  Cudgel 87 

CHAPTER  XIH. 

Oriental  Projects— Literary  Jobs— The  Cherokee  Chiefs  — Merry  Islington  and 
the  White  Conduit  House  —  Letters  on  .the  History  of  England  — James  Boswell 
—Dinner  of  Davies  — Anecdotes  of  Johnson  and  Goldsmith 91 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Hogarth  a  Visitor  at  Islington  — His  Character  —  Street  Studies  —  Sympathies  be- 
tween Authors  and  Painters  — Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  — (Hid'  Uharacfyr  —  His  Din- 
ners—The Literary  Club  — Its  Members  —  Johnson's  Terete-witt  Lanky  and 
Beau  —  Goldsmith  at  the  Club 9? 


CONTENTS.  7 

CHAPTER  XV. 

PAOK 

Johnson  a  Monitor  to  Goldsmith  —  Finds  him  in  Distress  with  his  Landlady—  Re-  _ 
lieved  by  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  —  The  Oratorio  —  Poem  of  the  Traveller  —  The 
Poet  and  his  Dog  —  Success  of  the  Poem  —  Astonishment  of  the  Club  —  Obser- 
rations  on  the  Poem  .......................    104 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

New  Lodgings  —  Johnson's  Compliment—  A  Titled  Patron—  The  Poet  at  Northum- 
berland House—  His  Independence  of  the  Great—  The  Countess  of  Northumber. 
land  —  Edwiu  and  Angelina  —  Gosfield  and  Lord  Clare—  Publication  of  Essays  — 
Evils  of  a  Rising  Reputation  —  Hangers-on—  Job  Writing  —  Goody-Two-Shoea 

—  A  Medical  Campaign  —  Mrs.  Sidebotham    ...    ...........    108 

CHAPTER  XVH. 
Publication  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  —  Opinions  concerning  it  —  Of  Dr.  Johnson 

—  Of  Rogers  the  Poet  —  Of  Goethe  —  Its  Merits  —  Exquisite  Extract  —  Attack  by 
Kenrick  —  Reply  —  Book-building  —  Project  of  a  Comedy   .........    114 

CHAPTER  XVin. 

Social  Condition  of  Goldsmith  —  His  Colloquial  Contest  with  Johnson—  Anecdotes 
and  Illustrations  ........................  120 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

Social  Resorts  —  The  Shilling  Whist  Club  —  A  Practical  Joke  —  The  Wednesday 
Club  —  The  "Tun  of  Man"  —  The  Pig  Butcher  —  Tom  King  —  Hugh  Kelly  — 
Glover  and  his  Characteristics  ...................  125 

CHAPTER  XX. 

The  Great  Cham  of  Literature  and  the  King  —  Scene  at  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  — 
Goldsmith  accused  of  Jealousy  —  Negotiations  with  Garrick  —  The  Author  and 
the  Actor—  Their  Correspondence  ..................  128 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
More  Hack  Authorship  —  Tom  Davies  and  the  Roman  History  —  Canonbury  Castle 

—  Political  Authorship  —  Pecuniary  Temptation  —  Death  of  Newbery  the  Elder,    13* 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

Theatrical  Manojuvring  —  The  Comedy  of  "False  Delicacy  "  —  First  Performance 
1  of  "The  Good-Natured  Man"  —  Conduct  of  Johnson  —  Conduct  of  the  Author 

—  Intermeddling  of  the  Press  ....................    135 


CHAPTER 

Burning  the  Candle  at  both  Ends  —  Fine  Apartments  —  Fine  Furniture  —  Fine 
Clothes  —  Fine  Acquaintances  —  Shoemaker's  Holiday  and  Jolly  Pigeon  Associ- 
ates—Peter Barlow,  Glover,  and  the  Hampstead  Hoax  —  Poor  Friends  among 
Great  Acquaintances  .......................  139 

CHAPTER  XXTV. 

Reduced  again  to  Book-building  —  Rural  Retreat  at  Shoemaker's  Paradise  —  Death 
,    of  Henry  Goldsmith  —  Tribute*  to  his  Memory  in  "  The  Deserted  Village  "  .    .    .    143 


8  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

MM 

Dinner  at  BickerstafTs  —  Hiffernan  and  bis  Impecuniosity  —  Kenrick's  Epigram  — 
Johnson's  Consolation  —  Goldsmith's  Toilet  — The  Bloom-colored  Coat  — New 
Acquaintance*  — The  Hornecks  —  A  Touch  of  Poetry  and  Passion  —  The  Jessamy 
Brid 146 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Goldsmith  in  the  Temple  — Judge  Day  and  Grattan  — Labor  and  Dissipation  — 
Publication  of  the  Roman  History  —  Opinions  of  it  — History  of  Animated  Na- 
ture—Temple  Rookery— Anecdotes  of  a  Spider  150 

CHAPTER  XXVH. 

Honors  at  the  Royal  Academy  —  Letter  to  his  Brother  Maurice  —  Family  Fortunes 
—  Jane  Contarine  and  the  Miniature  —  Portraits  and  Engravings  — School  Associ- 
ations—Johnsou  and  Goldsmith  in  Westminster  Abbey 156 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Publication  of  "  The  Deserted  Village  "  —  Notices  and  Illustrations  of  it    ....    190 
I/ 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

\  The  Poet  among  the  Ladies  —  Description  of  his  Person  and  Manners— Expedition 
to  Paris  with  the  Horneck  Family  —  The  Traveller  of  Twenty  and  the  Traveller 
of  Forty  — Hickey,  the  Special  Attorney  — An  Unlucky  Exploit 165 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

Death  of  GoldsmKh's  Mother— Biography  of  Parnell  — Agreement  with  Davioi  for 
the  History  of  Rome  — Life  of  Bolingbroke  — The  Haunch  of  Venison  .  ...  173 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Dinner  at  the  Royal  Academy —The  Rowley  Controversy —Horace  Walpole's  Con- 
duct  to  Chatterton— Johnson  at  Redcliffe  Church  —  Goldsmith's  History  of  Eng- 
land—Davies's  Criticism— Letter  to  Bennet  Langton  170 

CHAPTER  XXXH. 

Marriage  of  Little  Comedy  —  Goldsmith  at  Barton  —  Practical  Jokes  at  the  Expense 
of  his  Toilet  — Amusements  at  Barton  — Aquatic  Misadventure 180 

CHAPTER  XXXin. 

Dinner  at  General  Oglethorpe's  —  Anecdotes  of  the  General  —  Dispute  about  Duel- 
ling—Ghost  Stories  183 

CHAPTER  JL3LXJV. 

Mr.  Joseph  Cradock  —  An  Author's  Confidings  — An  Amanuensis  —  Life  at  Edge- 
ware—  Goldsmith  conjuring— George  Colman  —  The  Fantoccini 186 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Broken  Health  —  Dissipation  and  Debts  — The  Irish  Widow  —  Practical  Jok«  — 
Scrub  — A  Misquoted  Pun  — Malagrida  — Goldsmith  proved  to  be  a  Fool  — Di»- 
tressed  Ballad-Slngers  —  The  Poet  at  Ranlagh 1« 


CONTENTS.  9 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

PACK 

Invitation  to  Christmas  — The  Spring- velvet  Coat  — The  Hay -making  Wig  — The 
Mischances  of  Loo  — The  Fair  Culprit  — A  Dance  with  the  Jessamy  Bride  ...  198 

CHAPTER  XXXVH. 

Theatrical  Delays— Negotiations  with  Colman  —  Letter  to  Garrick  — Croaking  of 
the  Manager  — Naming  of  the  Play  — She  stoops  to  Conquer— Foote's  Primitive 
Puppet-show  —  Piety  on  Pattens  —  First  Performance  of  the  Comedy  — Agitation 
of  the  Author  — Success  — Colman  squibbed  out  of  Town 203 

CHAPTER  XXXVm. 
A  Newspaper  Attack  —  The  Evans  Affray  —  Johnson's  Comment 211 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Boewell  in  Holy  Week  — Dinner  at  Oglethorpe's  —  Dinner  at  Paoli's  — The  Policy 
of  Truth — Goldsmith  affects  Independence  of  Royalty  —  Paoli's  Compliment  — 
Johnson's  Eulogium  on  the  Fiddle  —  Question  about  Suicide  — Boswell's  Subser- 
viency   215 

CHAPTER  XL. 

Changes  in  the  Literary  Club  —  Johnson's  Objection  to  Garrick  —  Election  of  Bos- 
well 221 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

Dinner  at  Dilly's  —  Conversations  on  Natural  History  —  Intermeddling  of  Boswell 
—  Dispute  about  Toleration  — Johnson's  Rebuff  to  Goldsmith— His  Apology  — 
Man-worship— Doctors  Majoi  and  Minor  — A  Farewell  Visit 224 

CHAPTER  XLH. 

Project  of  a  Dictionary  of  Arts  and  Sciences  — Disappointment  — Negligent  Au- 
thorship—Application for  a  Pension  —  Seattle's  Essay  on  Truth  — Public  Adula- 
tion  — A  High  Minded  Rebuke 228 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Toil  without  Hope  — The  Poet  in  the  Green-room  — In  the  Flower  Garden— At 
Vauxhall  —  Dissipation  without  Gayety  —  Cradock  in  Town  —  Friendly  Sympathy 
—A  Parting  Scene  — An  Invitation  to  Pleasure 232 

CHAPTER  XLTV. 

A  Return  to  Drudgery  —  Forced  Gayety  —  Retreat  to  the  Country  — The  Poem  of 
-  Retaliation  —  Portrait  of  Garrick  —  Of  Goldsmith  —  Of  Reynolds  —  Illness  of  the 
Poet  — His  Death  — Grief  of  his  Friends  — A  Last  Word  respecting  the  Jessamy 
Bride 236 

CHAPTER  XLV. 
The  Funeral  —  The  Monument  —  The  Epitaph  —  Concluding  Remarks 243 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


A   BIOGRAPHY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

BIRTH    AND    PARENTAGE CHARACTERISTICS     OP    THE    GOLDSMITH 

RACE  —  POETICAL    BIRTHPLACE GOBLIN    HOUSE SCENES    OP 

BOYHOOD LISSOY PICTURE   OF   A   COUNTRY  PARSON  —  GOLD- 
SMITH'S SCHOOLMISTRESS  —  BYRNE,  THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOLMASTER 

—  GOLDSMITH'S  HORNPIPE  AND  EPIGRAM  —  UNCLE  CONTARINB 

—  SCHOOL     STUDIES    AND     SCHOOL     SPORTS  —  MISTAKES     OF    A 
NIGHT. 

THERE  are  few  writers  for  whom  the  reader  feels  such  per- 
sonal kindness  as  for  Oliver  Goldsmith,  for  few  have  so  emi- 
nently possessed  the  magic  gift  of  identifying  themselves  with 
their  writings.  We  read  his  character  in  every  page,  and  grow 
into  familiar  intimacy  with  him  as  we  read.  The  artless  be- 
nevolence that  beams  throughout  his  works ;  the  whimsical, 
yet  amiable  views  of  human  life  and  human  nature ;  the  un- 
forced humor,  blending  so  happily  with  good  feeling  and  good 
sense,  and  singularly  dashed  at  times  with  a  pleasing  melan- 
choly ;  even  the  very  nature  of  his  mellow,  and  flowing,  and 
softly-tinted  style,  all  seem  to  bespeak  his  moral  as  well  as  his 
intellectual  qualities,  and  make  us  love  the  man  at  the  same 
time  that  we  admire  the  author.  While  the  productions  of 
writers  of  loftier  pretension  and  more  sounding  names  are 
suffered  to  moulder  on  our  shelves,  those  of  Goldsmith  are  cher- 
ished and  laid  in  our  bosoms.  We  do  not  quote  them  with 
ostentation,  but  they  mingle  with  our  minds,  sweeten  our  tem- 
pers, and  harmonize  our  thoughts ;  they  put  us  in  good  humor 
with  ourselves  and  with  the  world,  and  in  so  doing  they  make 
us  happier  and  better  men. 


12  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

An  acquaintance  with  the  private  biography  of  Goldsmith 
lets  us  into  the  secret  cf  his  gifted  pages.  We  there  discover 
them  to  be  little  more  than  transcripts  of  his  own  heart  and 
picturings  of  his  fortunes.  There  he  shows  himself  the  same 
kind,  artless,  good-humored,  excursive,  sensible,  whimsical,  in- 
telligent being  that  he  appears  in  his  writings.  Scarcely  an 
adventure  or  character  is  given  in  his  works  that  may  not  be 
traced  to  his  own  party-colored  story.  Many  of  his  most  ludi- 
crous scenes  and  ridiculous  incidents  have  been  drawn  from 
his  own  blunders  and  mischances,  and  he  seems  really  to  have 
been  buffeted  into  almost  every  maxim  imparted  by  him  foi- 
the  instruction  of  his  reader. 

Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  on  the  10th  of  November,  1728, 
ait  the  hamlet  of  Pallas,  or  Pallasmore,  county  of  Longford,  in 
Ireland.  He  sprang  from  a  respectable,  but  by  no  means  a 
thrifty  stock.  Some  families  seem  to  inherit  kindliness  and 
incompetency,  and  to  hand  down  virtue  and  poverty  from 
generation  to  generation.  Such  was  the  case  with  the  Gold- 
smiths. "  They  were  always,"  according  to  their  own  accounts, 
"a  strange  family;  they  rarely  acted  like  other  people;  their 
hearts  were  in  the  right  place,  but  their  heads  seemed  to  be 
doing  any  thing  but  what  they  ought."  —  "They  were  remark- 
able," says  another  statement,  "  for  their  worth,  but  of  no 
cleverness  in  the  ways  of  the  world."  Oliver  Goldsmith  will 
be  found  faithfully  to  inherit  the  virtues  and  weaknesses  of  his 
race. 

His  father,  the  Rev.  Charles  Goldsmith,  with  hereditary  im- 
providence, married  when  •  very  young  and  very  poor,  and 
starved  along  for  several  years  on  a  small  country  curacy 
and  the  assistance  of  his  wife's  friends.  His  whole  income, 
eked  out  by  the  produce  of  some  fields  which  he  farmed,  and 
of  some  occasional  duties  performed  for  his  wife's  uncle,  the 
rector  of  an  adjoining  parish,  did  not  exceed  forty  pounds. 

"  And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year." 

He  inhabited  an  old,  half  rustic  mansion,  that  stood  on  a 
rising  ground  in  a  rough,  lonely  part  of  the  country,  overlook- 
ing a  low  tract,  occasionally  flooded  by  the  river  Inny.  In  this 
house  Goldsmith  was  born,  and  it  was  a  birthplace  worthy  of 
a  poet ;  for,  by  all  accounts,  it  was  haunted  ground.  A  tradi- 
tion handed  down  among  the  neighboring  peasantry  states  that, 
in  after  years,  the  house,  remaining  for  some  time  untenanted, 
went  to  decay,  the  roof  fell  in,  and  it  became  so  lonely  and  for 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  13 

lorn  as  to  be  a  resort  for  the  "good  people  "  or  fairies,  who  in 
Ireland  are  supposed  to  delight  in  old,  crazy,  deserted  mansions 
for  their  midnight  revels.  All  attempts  to  repair  it  were  in 
vain ;  the  fairies  battled  stoutly  to  maintain  possession.  A 
huge  misshapen  hobgoblin  used  to  bestride  the  house  every 
evening  with  an  immense  pair  of  jack-boots,  which,  in  his 
efforts  at  hard  riding,  he  would  thrust  through  the  roof,  kick- 
ing to  pieces  all  the  work  of  the  preceding  day.  The  house 
was  therefore  left  to  its  fate,  and  went  to  ruin. 

Such  is  the  popular  tradition  about  Goldsmith's  birthplace. 
About  two  years  after  his  birth  a  change  came  over  the  cir- 
cumstances of  his  father.  By  the  death  of  his  wife's  uncle  he 
succeeded  to  the  rectory  of  Kilkenny  West ;  and,  abandoning 
the  old  goblin  mansion,  he  removed  to  Lissoy,  in  the  county  of 
Westmeath,  where  he  occupied  a  farm  of  seventy  acres,  situated 
on  the  skirts  of  that  pretty  little  village. 

This  was  the  scene  of  Goldsmith's  boyhood,  the  little  world 
whence  he  drew  many  of  those  pictures,  rural  and  domestic, 
whimsical  and  touching,  which  abound  throughout  his  works, 
and  which  appeal  so  eloquently  both  to  the  fancy  and  the 
heart.  Lissoy  is  confidently  cited  as  the  original  of  his  "Au- 
burn "  in  the  "  Deserted  Village  ;  "  his  father's  establishment, 
a  mixture  of  farm  and  parsonage,  furnished  hints,  it  is  said, 
for  the  rural  economy  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield ;  and  his 
father  himself,  with  his  learned  simplicity,  his  guileless  wis- 
dom, his  amiable  piety,  and  utter  ignorance  of  the  world,  has 
been  exquisitely  portrayed  in  the  worthy  Dr.  Primrose.  Let 
us  pause  for  a  moment,  and  draw  from  Goldsmith's  writings 
one  or  two  of  those  pictures  which,  under  feigned  names,  rep- 
resent his  father  and  his  family,  and  the  happy  fireside  of  his 
childish  days. 

"My  father,"  says  the  "Man  in  Black,"  who,  in  some  re- 
spects, is  a  counterpart  of  Goldsmith  himself,  "  my  father,  the 
younger  son  of  a  good  family,  was  possessed  of  a  small  living 
in  the  church.  His  education  was  above  his  fortune,  and  his 
generosity  greater  than  his  education.  Poor  as  he  was,  he  had 
his  flatterers  poorer  than  himself ;  for  every  dinner  he  gave 
them,  they  returned  him  an  equivalent  in  praise ;  and  this  was 
al)  he  wanted.  The  same  ambition  that  actuates  a  monarch  at 
the  head  of  his  army  influenced  my  father  at  the  head  of  his 
table :  he  told  the  story  of  the  ivy-tree,  and  that  was  laughed 
at ;  he  repeated  the  jest  of  the  two  scholars  and  one  pair  of 
breeches,  and  the  company  laughed  at  that ;  but  the  story 
of  Taffy  in  the  sedan-chair  was  sure  to  set  the  table  in  a  roar. 


14  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Thus  his  pleasure  increased  in  proportion  to  the  pleasure  he 
gave ;  he  loved  all  the  world,  and  he  fancied  all  the  world  loved 
him. 

"As  his  fortune  was  but  small,  he  lived  up  to  the  very  ex- 
tent of  it ;  he  had  no  intention  of  leaving  his  children  money, 
for  that  was  dross ;  he  resolved  they  should  have  learning,  for 
learning,  he  used  to  observe,  was  better  than  silver  or  gold. 
For  this  purpose  he  undertook  to  instruct  us  himself,  and  took 
as  much  care  to  form  our  morals  as  to  improve  our  under- 
standing. We  were  told  that  universal  benevolence  was  what 
first  cemented  society ;  we  were  taught  to  consider  all  the 
wants  of  mankind  as  our  own :  to  regard  the  human  face 
divine  with  affection  and  esteem ;  he  wound  us  up  to  be  mere 
machines  of  pity,  and  rendered  us  incapable  of  withstanding 
the  slightest  impulse  made  either  by  real  or  fictitious  distress. 
In  a  word,  we  were  perfectly  instructed  in  the  art  of  giving 
away  thousands  before  we  were  taught  the  necessary  qualifica- 
tions of  getting  a  farthing." 

In  the  Deserted  Village  we  have  another  picture  of  his  father 
and  his  father's  fireside : 

"  His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain; 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged  breast ; 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  show'd  how  fields  were  won* 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began." 

The  family  of  the  worthy  pastor  consisted  of  five  sons  and 
three  daughters.  Henry,  the  eldest,  was  the  good  man's  pride 
and  hope,  and  he  tasked  his  slender  means  to  the  utmost  in 
educating  him  for  a  learned  and  distinguished  career.  Oliver 
was  the  second  son,  and  seven  years  younger  than  Henry,  who 
was  the  guide  and  protector  of  his  childhood,  and  to  whom 
he  was  most  tenderly  attached  throughout  life. 

Oliver's  education  began  when  he  was  about  three  years 
old  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  was  gathered  under  the  wings  of  one  of 
those  good  old  motherly  dames,  found  in  every  village,  who 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  15 

cluck  together  the  whole  callow  brood  of  the  neighborhood,  to 
teach  them  their  letters  and  keep  them  out  of  harm's  way. 
Mistress  Elizabeth  Delap,  for  that  was  her  name,  flourished  in 
this  capacity  for  upward  of  fifty  years,  and  it  was  the  pride 
and  boast  of  her  declining  days,  when  nearly  ninety  years  of 
age,  that  she  was  the  first  that  had  put  a  book  (doubtless  a 
hornbook)  into  Goldsmith's  hands.  Apparently  he  did  not 
much  profit  by  it,  for  she  confessed  he  was  one  of  the  dullest 
boys  she  had  ever  dealt  with,  insomuch  that  she  had  sometimes 
doubted  whether  it  was  possible  to  make  any  thing  of  him :  a 
common  case  with  imaginative  children,  who  are  apt  to  be 
beguiled  from  the  dry  abstractions  of  elementary  study  by  the 
picturings  of  the  fancy. 

At  six  years  of  age  he  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  village 
schoolmaster,  one  Thomas  (or,  as  he  was  commonly  and  irrever- 
ently named,  Paddy)  Byrne,  a  capital  tutor  for  a  poet.  He  had 
been  educated  for  a  pedagogue,  but  had  enlisted  in  the  army, 
served  abroad  during  the  wars  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  and  risen 
to  the  rank  of  quartermaster  of  a  regiment  in  Spain.  At  the 
return  of  peace,  having  no  longer  exercise  for  the  sword,  he  re- 
sumed the  ferule,  and  drilled  the  urchin  populace  of  Lissoy. 
Goldsmith  is  supposed  to  have  had  him  and  his  school  in  view 
in  the  following  sketch  in  his  Deserted  Village : 

"  Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofltably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school; 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew : 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 
Pull  well  they  laugh'd  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round, 
Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  f rown'd  : 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault; 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 
Twas  certain  he  could  write  and  cipher  too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge  : 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 
For,  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thund'ring  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  — 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew,      . 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew."       , 


16  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

There  are  certain  whimsical  traits  in  the  character  of  Byrne, 
not  given  in  the  foregoing  sketch.  He  was  fond  of  talking  of 
his  vagabond  wanderings  in  foreign  lands,  and  had  brought  with 
him  from  the  wars  a  world  of  campaigning  stories,  of  which  he 
was  generally  the  hero,  and  which  he  would  deal  forth  to  his 
wondering  scholars  when  he  ought  to  have  been  teaching  them 
their  lessons.  These  travellers'  tales  had  a  powerful  effect  upon 
the  vivid  imagination  of  Goldsmith,  and  awakened  an  uncon- 
querable passion  for  wandering  and  seeking  adventure. 

Byrne  was,  moreover,  of  a  romantic  vein,  and  exceedingly 
superstitious.  He  was  deeply  versed  in  the  fairy  superstitions 
which  abound  in  Ireland,  all  which  he  professed  implicitly  to 
believe.  Under  his  tuition  Goldsmith  soon  became  almost  as 
great  a  proficient  in  fairy  lore.  From  this  branch  of  good-for- 
nothing  knowledge,  his  studies,  by  an  easy  transition,  extended 
to  the  histories  of  robbers,  pirates,  smugglers,  and  the  whole 
race  of  Irish  rogues  and  rapparees.  Every  thing,  in  short,  that 
savored  of  romance,  fable,  and  adventure  was  congenial  to  his 
poetic  mind,  and  took  instant  root  there  ;  but  the  slow  plants  of 
useful  knowledge  were  apt  to  be  overrun,  if  not  choked,  by  the 
weeds  of  his  quick  imagination. 

Another  trait  of  his  motley  preceptor,  Byrne,  was  a  disposi- 
tion to  dabble  in  poetry,  and  this  likewise  was  caught  by  his 
pupil.  Before  he  was  eight  years  old  Goldsmith  had  contracted 
a  habit  of  scribbling  verses  on  small  scraps  of  paper,  which,  in 
a  little  while,  he  would  throw  into  the  fire.  A  few  of  these 
sibylline  leaves,  however,  were  rescued  from  the  flames  and  con- 
veyed to  his  mother.  The  good  woman  read  them  with  a  moth- 
er's delight,  and  saw  at  once  that  her  son  was  a  genius  and  a 
poet.  From  that  time  she  beset  her  husband  with  solicitations 
to  give  the  boy  an  education  suitable  to  his  talents.  The  worthy 
man  was  already  straitened  by  the  costs  of  instruction  of  his 
eldest  son  Henry,  and  had  intended  to  bring  his  second  son  up 
to  a  trade ;  but  the  mother  would  listen  to  no  such  thing ;  as 
usual,  her  influence  prevailed,  and  Oliver,  instead  of  being  in- 
structed in  some  humble  but  cheerful  and  gainful  handicraft, 
was  devoted  to  poverty  and  the  Muse. 

A  severe  attack  of  the  small-pox  caused  him  to  be  taken  from 
under  the  care  of  his  story-telling  preceptor,  Byrne.  His  malady 
had  nearly  proved  fatal,  and  his  face  remained  pitted  through 
life.  On  his  recovery  he  was  placed  under  the  charge  of  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Griffin,  schoolmaster  of  Elphin,  in  Roscommon,  and 
became  an  inmate  in  the  house  of  his  uncle,  John  Goldsmith, 
Esq.,  of  Ballyoughter,  in  that  vicinity.  He  now  entered  upoj| 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  17 

studies  of  a  higher  order,  but  without  making  any  uncommon 
progress.  Still  a  careless,  easy  facility  of  disposition,  an  amus- 
ing eccentricity  of  manners,  and  a  vein  of  quiet  and  peculiar 
humor,  rendered  him  a  general  favorite,  and  a  trifling  incident 
soon  induced  his  uncle's  family  to  concur  in  his  mother's  opin- 
ion of  his  genius. 

A  number  of  young  folks  had  assembled  at  his  uncle's  to 
dance.  One  of  the  company,  named  Cummings,  played  on  the 
violin.  In  the  course  of  the  evening  Oliver  undertook  a  horn- 
pipe. His  short  and  clumsy  figure,  and  his  face  pitted  and  dis- 
colored with  the  small-pox,  rendered  him  a  ludicrous  figure  in 
the  eyes  of  the  musician,  who  made  merry  at  his  expense,  dub- 
bing him  his  little  ^Esop.  Goldsmith  was  nettled  by  the  jest, 
and,  stopping  short  in  the  hornpipe,  exclaimed, 

"  Our  herald  hath  proclaimed  this  saying, 
See  -<Esop  dancing,  and  his  monkey  playing." 

The  repartee  was  thought  wonderful  for  a  boy  of  nine  years 
old,  and  Oliver  became  forthwith  the  wit  and  the  bright  genius 
of  the  family.  It  was  thought  a  pity  he  should  not  receive  the 
same  advantages  with  his  elder  brother  Henry,  who  had  been 
sent  to  the  University  ;  and,  as  his  father's  circumstances  would 
not  afford  it,  several  of  his  relatives,  spurred  on  by  the  repre- 
sentations of  his  mother,  agreed  to  contribute  toward  the  ex- 
pense. The  greater  part,  however,  was  borne  by  his  uncle,  the 
Rev.  Thomas  Contarine.  This  worthy  man  had  been  the  college 
companion  of  Bishop  Berkeley,  and  was  possessed  of  moderate 
means,  holding  the  living  of  Carrick-on-Shannon.  He  had 
married  the  sister  of  Goldsmith's  father,  but  was  now  a  widower, 
with  an  only  child,  a  daughter,  named  Jane.  Contarine  was  a 
kind-hearted  man,  with  a  generosity  beyond  his  means.  He 
took  Goldsmith  into  favor  from  his  infancy  ;  his  house  was  open 
to  him  during  the  holidays  ;  his  daughter  Jane,  two  years  older 
than  the  poet,  was  his  early  playmate ;  and  uncle  Contarine 
continued  to  the  last  one  of  his  most  active,  unwavering,  and 
generous  friends. 

Fitted  out  in  a  great  measure  by  this  considerate  relative, 
Oliver  was  now  transferred  to  schools  of  a  higher  order,  to  pre- 
pare him  for  the  University ;  first  to  one  at  Athlone,  kept  by 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Campbell,  and,  at  the  end  of  two  years,  to  one  at 
Edgeworthstown,  under  the  superintendence  of  the  Rev.  Patrick 
Hughes. 

Even  at  these  schools  his  proficiency  does  not  appear  to  have 


18  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

been  brilliant.  He  was  indolent  and  careless,  however,  rather 
than  dull,  and,  on  the  whole,  appears  to  have  been  well  thought 
of  by  his  teachers.  In  his  studies  he  inclined  toward  the  Latin 
poets  and  historians ;  relished  Ovid  and  Horace,  and  delighted 
in  Livy.  He  exercised  himself  with  pleasure  in  reading  and 
translating  Tacitus,  and  was  brought  to  pay  attention  to  style 
in  his  compositions  by  a  reproof  from  his  brother  Henry,  to 
whom  he  had  written  brief  and  confused  letters,  and  who  told 
him  in  reply,  that  if  he  had  but  little  to  say,  to  endeavor  to  say 
that  little  well. 

The  career  of  his  brother  Henry  at  the  University  was  enough 
to  stimulate  him  to  exertion.  He  seemed  to  be  realizing  all  his 
father's  hopes,  and  was  winning  collegiate  honors  that  the  good 
man  considered  indicative  of  his  future  success  in  life. 

In  the  mean  while  Oliver,  if  not  distinguished  among  his 
teachers,  was  popular  among  his  schoolmates.  He  had  a 
thoughtless  generosity  extremely  captivating  to  young  hearts ; 
his  temper  was  quick  and  sensitive,  and  easily  offended ;  but 
his  anger  was  momentary,  and  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  har- 
bor resentment.  He  was  the  leader  of  all  boyish  sports  and 
athletic  amusements,  especially  ball-playing,  and  he  was  fore- 
most in  all  mischievous  pranks.  Many  years  afterward,  an  old 
man,  Jack  Fitzimmons,  one  of  the  directors  of  the  sports  and 
keeper  of  the  ball-court  at  Ballymahon,  used  to  boast  of  having 
been  schoolmate  of  "  Noll  Goldsmith,"  as  he  called  him,  and 
would  dwell  with  vainglory  on  one  of  their  exploits,  in  robbing 
the  orchard  of  Tirlicken,  an  old  family  residence  of  Lord 
Annaly.  The  exploit,  however,  had  nearly  involved  disastroua 
consequences ;  for  the  crew  of  juvenile  depredators  were  cap- 
tured, like  Shakspeare  and  his  deer-stealing  colleagues,  and 
nothing  but  the  respectability  of  Goldsmith's  connections  saved 
him  from  the  punishment  that  would  have  awaited  more  plebeian 
delinquents. 

An  amusing  incident  is  related  as  occurring  in  Goldsmith's 
ast  journey  homeward  from  Edgeworthstown.  His  father's 

use  was  about  twenty  miles  distant ;  the  road  lay  through 
a  rough  country,  impassable  for  carriages.  Goldsmith  pro- 
cured a  horse  for  the  journey,  and  a  friend  furnished  him  with 
a  guinea  for  travelling  expenses.  He  was  but  a  stripling  of 
sixteen,  and  being  thus  suddenly  mounted  on  horseback,  with 
money  in  his  pocket,  it  is  no  wonder  that  his  head  was 
turned.  He  determined  to  play  the  man,  and  to  spend  his 
money  in  independent  traveller's  style.  Accordingly,  instead 
of  pushing  directly  for  home,  he  halted  for  the  night  at  the  littie 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  19 

town  of  Ardagh,  and,  accosting  the  first  person  he  met,  in- 
quired, with  somewhat  of  a  consequential  air,  for  the  best 
house  in  the  place.  Unluckily,  the  person  he  had  accosted  was 
one  Kelly,  a  notorious  wag,  who  was  quartered  in  the  family 
of  one  Mr.  Featherstone,  a  gentleman  of  fortune.  Amused 
with  the  self-consequence  of  the  stripling,  and  willing  to  play 
off  a  practical  joke  at  his  expense,  he  directed  him  to  what  was 
literally  "the  best  house  in  the  place,"  namely,  the  family 
mansion  of  Mr.  Featherstone.  Goldsmith  accordingly  rode  up 
to  what  he  supposed  to  be  an  inn,  ordered  his  horse  to  be  taken 
to  the  stable,  walked  into  the  parlor,  seated  himself  by  the  fire, 
and  demanded  what  he  could  have  for  supper.  On  ordinary 
occasions  he  was  diffident  and  even  awkward  in  his  manners, 
but  here  he  was  "•  at  ease  in  his  inn,"  and  felt  called  upon  to 
show  his  manhood  and  enact  the  experienced  traveller.  His 
person  was  by  no  means  calculated  to  play  off  his  pretensions, 
for  he  was  short  and  thick,  with  a  pock-marked  face,  and  an 
air  and  carriage  by  no  means  of  a  distinguished  cast.  The 
owner  of  the  house,  however,  soon  discovered  his  whimsical 
mistake,  and,  being  a  man  of  humor,  determined  to  indulge  it, 
especially  as  he  accidentally  learned  that  this  intruding  guest 
was  the  sou  of  an  old  acquaintance. 

Accordingly  Goldsmith  was  "•  fooled  to  the  top  of  his  bent," 
and  permitted  to  have  full  sway  throughout  the  evening.  Never 
was  schoolboy  more  elated.  When  supper  was  served,  he 
most  condescendingly  insisted  that  the  landlord,  his  wife  and 
daughter  should  partake,  and  ordered  a  bottle  of  wine  to  crown 
the  repast  and  benefit  the  house.  His  last  flourish  was  on  going 
tc  bed,  when  he  gave  especial  orders  to  have  a  hot  cake  at 
breakfast.  His  confusion  and  dismay,  on  discovering  the  next 
morning  that  he  had  been  swaggering  in  this  free  and  easy 
way  in  the  house  of  a  private  gentleman,  may  be  readily  con- 
ceived. True  to  his  habit  of  turning  the  events  of  his  life  to 
literary  account,  we  find  this  chapter  of  ludicrous  blunders 
and  cross  purposes  dramatized  many  years  afterward  in  his  / 
admirable  comedy  of  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  or  the  Mistakes/ 
of  a  Night."  / 


20  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER   H. 

IMPROVIDENT     MARRIAGES     IN    THE     GOLDSMITH     FAMILY GOLD- 
SMITH   AT   THE    UNIVERSITY SITUATION  OF   A    SIZER  —  TYRANNY 

OF    WILDER,    THE    TUTOR PECUNIARY     STRAITS STREET    BAL- 
LADS —  COLLEGE     RIOT  —  GALLOWS     WALSH COLLEGE     PRIZE 

—  A    DANCE    INTERRUPTED. 

WHILE  Oliver  was  making  his  way  somewhat  negligently 
through  the  schools,  his  elder  brother  Henry  was  rejoicing  his 
father's  heart  by  his  career  at  the  University.  He  soon  dis- 
tinguished himself  at  the  examinations,  and  obtained  a  scholar- 
ship in  1743.  This  is  a  collegiate  distinction  which  serves  as  a 
stepping-stone  in  any  of  the  learned  professions,  and  which 
leads  to  advancement  in  the  University  should  the  individual 
choose  to  remain  there.  His  father  now  trusted  that  he  would 
push  forward  for  that  comfortable  provision,  a  fellowship,  and 
thence  to  higher  dignities  and  emoluments.  Henry,  however, 
had  the  improvidence  or  the  "  unworldliness  "  of  his  race;  re- 
turning to  the  country  during  the  succeeding  vacatiop,  he 
married  for  love,  relinquished,  of  course,  all  his  collegiate 
prospects  and  advantages,  set  up  a  school  in  his  father's  neigh- 
borhood, and  buried  his  talents  and  acquirements  for  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life  in  a  curacy  of  forty  pounds  a  year. 

Another  matrimonial  event  occurred  not  long  afterward  in 
the  Goldsmith  family,  to  disturb  the  equanimity  of  its  worthy 
head.  This  was  the  clandestine  marriage  of  his  daughter 
Catherine  with  a  young  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Hodson, 
who  had  been  confided  to  the  care  of  her  brother  Henry  to 
complete  his  studies.  As  the  youth  was  of  wealthy  parentage, 
it  was  thought  a  lucky  match  for  the  Goldsmith  family ;  but 
the  tidings  of  the  event  stung  the  bride's  father  to  the  soul. 
Proud  of  his  integrity,  and  jealous  of  that  good  name  which  was 
his  chief  possession,  he  saw  himself  and  his  family  subjected 
to  the  degrading  suspicion  of  having  abused  a  trust  reposed  in 
them  to  promote  a  mercenary  match.  In  the  first  transports 
of  his  feelings  he  is  said  to  have  uttered  a  wish  that  his  daugh- 
ter might  never  have  a  child  to  bring  like  shame  and  sorrow 
on  her  head.  The  hasty  wish,  so  contrary  to  the  usual  benig- 
nity of  the  naan,  was  recalled  and  repented  of  almost  as  soon  as 
uttered ;  but  it  was  considered  baleful  in  its  effects  by  the 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  21 

superstitious  neighborhood;  for,  though  his  daughter  bore 
three  children,  they  all  died  before  her. 

A  more  effectual  measure  was  taken  by  Mr.  Goldsmith  to 
ward  off  the  apprehended  imputation,  but  one  which  imposed 
a  heavy  burden  on  his  family.  This  was  to  furnish  a  marriage 
portion  of  four  hundred  pounds,  that  his  daughter  might  not 
be  said  to  have  entered  her  husband's  family  empty-handed. 
To  raise  the  sum  in  cash  was  impossible ;  but  he  assigned  to 
Mr.  Hodson  his  little  farm  and  the  income  of  his  tithes  until 
the  marriage  portion  should  be  paid.  In  the  mean  time,  as  his 
living  did  not  amount  to  £200  per  annum,  he  had  to  practise 
the  strictest  economy  to  pay  off  gradually  this  heavy  tax  in- 
curred by  his  nice  sense  of  honor. 

The  first  of  his  family  to  feel  the  effects  of  this  economy  was 
Oliver.  The  time  had  now  arrived  for  him  to  be  sent  to  the 
University,  and,  accordingly,  on  the  llth  June,  1745,  when 
seventeen  years  of  age,  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin ;  but 
his  father  was  no  longer  able  to  place  him  there  as  a  pensioner, 
as  he  had  done  his  eldest  son  Henry  ;  he  was  obliged,  therefore, 
to  enter  him  as  a  sizer,  or  "  poor  scholar."  He  was  lodged  in 
one  of  the  top  rooms  adjoining  the  library  of  the  building, 
numbered  35,  where  it  is  said  his  name  may  still  be  seen, 
scratched  by  himself  upon  a  window  frame. 

A  student  of  this  class  is  taught  and  boarded  gratuitously, 
and  has  to  pay  but  a  very  small  sum  for  his  room.  It  is  ex- 
pected, in  return  for  these  advantages,  that  he  will  be  a  dili- 
gent student,  and  render  himself  useful  in  a  variety  of  ways. 
In  Trinity  College,  at  the  time  of  Goldsmith's  admission,  sev- 
eral derogatory  and  indeed  menial  offices  were  exacted  from 
the  sizer,  as  if  the  college  sought  to  indemnify  itself  for  confer- 
ring benefits  by  inflicting  indignities.  He  was  obliged  to  sweep 
part  of  the  courts  in  the  morning,  to  carry  up  the  dishes  from 
the  kitchen  to  the  fellows'  table,  and  to  wait  in  the  hall  until 
that  body  had  dined.  His  very  dress  marked  the  inferiority 
of  the  "  poor  student  "  to  his  happier  classmates.  It  was  a 
black  gown  of  coarse  stuff  without  sleeves,  and  a  plain  black 
cloth  cap  without  a  tassel.  We  can  conceive  nothing  more 
odious  and  ill-judged  than  these  distinctions,  which  attached 
the  idea  of  degradation  to  poverty,  and  placed  the  indigent 
youth  of  merit  below  the  worthless  minion  of  fortune.  They 
were  calculated  to  wound  and  irritate  the  noble  mind,  and  to 
render  the  base  mind  baser. 

Indeed,  the  galling  effect  of  these  servile  tasks  upon  youths 
of  proud  spirits  and  quick  sensibilities  became  at  length  too 


22  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

notorious  to  be  disregarded.  About  fifty  years  since,  on  a 
Trinity  Sunday,  a  number  of  persons  were  assembled  to  wit- 
ness the  college  ceremonies ;  and  as  a  sizer  was  carrying  up  a 
dish  of  meat  to  the  fellows'  table,  a  burly  citizen  in  the  crowd 
made  some  sneering  observation  on  the  servility  of  his  office. 
Stung  to  the  quick,  the  high-spirited  youth  instantly  flung  the 
dish  and  its  contents  at  the  head  of  the  sneerer.  The  sizer  was 
sharply  reprimanded  for  this  outbreak  of  wounded  pride,  but 
the  degrading  task  was  from  that  day  forward  very  properly 
consigned  to  menial  hands. 

It  was  with  the  utmost  repugnance  that  Goldsmith  entered 
college  in  this  capacity.  His  shy  and  sensitive  nature  was 
affected  by  the  inferior  station  he  was  doomed  to  hold  among 
his  gay  and  opulent  fellow-students,  and  he  became,  at  times, 
moody  and  despondent.  A  recollection  of  these  early  mortifi- 
cations induced  him,  in  after  years,  most  strongly  to  dissuade 
his  brother  Henry,  the  clergyman,  from  sending  a  son  to  col- 
lege on  a  like  footing.  "If  he  has  ambition,  strong  passions, 
and  an  exquisite  sensibility  of  contempt,  do  not  send  him 
there,  unless  you  have  no  other  trade  for  him  except  your 
own." 

To  add  to  his  annoyances,  the  fellow  of  the  college  who  had 
the  peculiar  control  of  his  studies,  the  Rev.  Theaker  Wilder, 
was  a  man  of  violent  and  capricious  temper,  and  of  diametri- 
cally opposite  tastes.  The  tutor  was  devoted  to  the  exact 
sciences  ;  Goldsmith  was  for  the  classics.  Wilder  endeavored 
to  force  his  favorite  studies  upon  the  student  by  harsh  means, 
suggested  by  his  own  coarse  and  savage  nature.  He  abused 
him  in  presence  of  the  class  as  ignorant  and  stupid ;  ridiculed 
him  as  awkward  and  ugly,  and  at  times  in  the  transports  of 
his  temper  indulged  in  personal  violence.  The  effect  was  to 
aggravate  a  passive  distaste  into  a  positive  aversion.  Gold- 
smith was  loud  in  expressing  his  contempt  for  mathematics 
and  his  dislike  of  ethics  and  logic ;  and  the  prejudices  thus 
imbibed  continued  through  life.  Mathematics  he  always  pro- 
nounced a  science  to  which  the  meanest  intellects  were  compe- 
tent. 

A  truer  cause  of  this  distaste  for  the  severer  studies  may 
probably  be  found  in  his  natural  indolence  and  his  love  of  con- 
vivial pleasures.  "  I  was  a  lover  of  mirth,  good-humor,  and 
even  sometimes  of  fun,"  said  he,  "from  my  childhood."  He 
sang  a  good  song,  was  a  boon  companion,  and  could  not  resist 
any  temptation  to  social  enjoyment.  He  endeavored  to  per- 
suade himself  that  learning  and  dulness  went  hand  in  hand, 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  23 

and  that  genius  was  not  to  be  put  in  harness.  Even  in  riper 
years,  when  the  consciousness  of  his  own  deficiencies  ought  to 
have  convinced  him  of  the  importance  of  early  study,  he  speaks 
slightingly  of  college  honors. 

"A  lad,"  says  he,  "whose  passions  are  not  strong  enough 
in  youth  to  mislead  him  from  that  path  of  science  which  his 
tutors,  and  not  his  inclination,  have  chalked  out,  by  four  or 
five  years'  perseverance  will  probably  obtain  every  advantage 
and  honor  his  college  can  bestow.  I  would  compare  the  man 
whose  youth  has  been  thus  passed  in  the  tranquillity  of  dispas- 
sionate prudence,  to  liquors  that  never  ferment,  and,  conse- 
quently, continue  always  muddy." 

The  death  of  his  worthy  father,  which  took  place  early  in 
1747,  rendered  Goldsmith's  situation  at  college  extremely  irk- 
some. His  mother  was  left  with  little  more  than  the  means  of 
providing  for  the  wants  of  her  household,  and  was  unable  to 
furnish  him  any  remittances.  He  would  have  been  compelled, 
therefore,  to  leave  college,  had  it  not  been  for  the  occasional 
contributions  of  friends,  the  foremost  among  whom  was  his 
generous  and  warm-hearted  uncle  Contarine.  Still  these  sup- 
plies were  so  scanty  and  precarious,  that  in  the  intervals  be- 
tween them  he  was  put  to  great  straits.  He  had  two  college 
associates  from  whom  he  would  occasionally  borrow  small  sums  ; 
one  was  an  early  schoolmate,  by  the  name  of  Beatty  ;  the  other 
a  cousin,  and  the  chosen  companion  of  his  frolics,  Robert  (or 
rather  Bob)  Bryanton,  of  Ballymulvey  House,  near  Ballyma- 
hon.  When  these  casual  supplies  failed  him  he  was  more  than 
once  obliged  to  raise  funds  for  his  immediate  wants  by  pawn- 
ing his  books.  At  times  he  sank  into  despondency,  but  he  had 
what  he  termed  "  a  knack  at  hoping,"  which  soon  buoyed  him 
up  again.  He  began  now  to  resort  to  his  poetical  vein  as  a 
source  of  profit,  scribbling  street-ballads,  which  he  privately 
sold  for  five  shillings  each  at  a  shop  which  dealt  in  such  small 
wares  of  literature.  He  felt  an  author's  affection  for  these 
unowned  bantlings,  and  we  are  told  would  stroll  privately 
through  the  streets  at  night  to  hear  them  sung,  listening  to 
the  comments  and  criticisms  of  bystanders,  and  observing  the 
degree  of  applause  which  each  received. 

Edmund  Burke  was  a  fellow-student  with  Goldsmith  at  the 
college.  Neither  the  statesman  nor  the  poet  gave  promise  of 
their  future  celebrity,  though  Burke  certainly  surpassed  his 
contemporary  in  industry  and  application,  and  evinced  more 
disposition  for  self-improvement,  associating  himself  with  a 
number  of  his  fellow-students  in  a  debating  club,  in  which 


24  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

they  discussed  literary  topics,  and  exercised  themselves  in 
composition. 

Goldsmith  may  likewise  have  belonged  to  this  association, 
but  his  propensity  was  rather  to  mingle  with  the  gay  and 
thoughtless.  On  one  occasion  we  find  him  implicated  in  an 
affair  that  came  nigh  producing  his  expulsion.  A  report  was 
brought  to  college  that  a  scholar  was  in  the  hands  of  the  bai- 
liffs. This  was  an  insult  in  which  every  gownsman  felt  him- 
self involved.  A  number  of  the  scholars  flew  to  arms,  and 
sallied  forth  to  battle,  headed  by  a  hare-brained  fellow  nick- 
named Gallows  Walsh,  noted  for  his  aptness  at  mischief  and 
fondness  for  riot.  The  stronghold  of  the  bailiff  was  carried  by 
storm,  the  scholar  set  at  liberty,  and  the  delinquent  catchpole 
borne  off  captive  to  the  college,  where,  having  no  pump  to  put 
him  under,  they  satisfied  the  demands  of  collegiate  law  by 
ducking  him  in  an  old  cistern. 

Flushed  with  this  signal  victory,  Gallows  Walsh  now  ha- 
rangued his  followers,  and  proposed  to  break  open  Newgate, 
or  the  Black  Dog,  as  the  prison  was  called,  and  effect  a  general 
jail  delivery.  He  was  answered  by  shouts  of  concurrence, 
and  away  went  the  throng  of  madcap  youngsters,  fully  bent 
upon  putting  an  end  to  the  tyranny  of  law.  They  were  joined 
by  the  mob  of  the  city,  and  made  an  attack  upon  the  prison 
with  true  Irish  precipitation  and  thoughtlessness,  never  hav- 
ing provided  themselves  with  cannon  to  batter  its  stone  walls. 
A  few  shots  from  the  prison  brought  them  to  their  senses,  and 
they  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  two  of  the  townsmen  being  killed, 
and  several  wounded. 

A  severe  scrutiny  of  this  affair  took  place  at  the  Univer- 
sity. Four  students,  who  had  been  ringleaders,  were  expelled ; 
four  others,  who  had  been  prominent  in  the  affray,  were  pub- 
licly admonished ;  among  the  latter  was  the  unlucky  Gold- 
smith. 

To  make  up  for  this  disgrace,  he  gained,  within  a  month 
afterward,  one  of  the  minor  prizes  of  the  college.  It  is  true  it 
was  one  of  the  very  smallest,  amounting  in  pecuniary  value  to 
but  thirty  shillings,  but  it  was  the  first  distinction  he  had 
gained  in  his  whole  collegiate  career.  This  turn  of  success 
and  sudden  influx  of  wealth  proved  too  much  for  the  head  of 
our  poor  student.  He  forthwith  gave  a  supper  and  dance  at 
his  chamber  to  a  number  of  young  persons  of  both  sexes  from 
the  city,  in  direct  violation  of  college  rules.  The  unwonted 
sound  of  the  fiddle  reached  the  ears  of  the  implacable  Wilder. 
He  rushed  to  the  scene  of  unhallowed  festivity,  inflicted  cor- 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  25 

poral  punishment  on  the  "  father  of  the  feast,"  and  turned  his 
astonished  guests  neck  and  heels  out  of  doors. 

This  filled  the  measure  of  poor  Goldsmith's  humiliations  ;  he 
felt  degraded  both  within  college  and  without.  He  dreaded 
the  ridicule  of  his  fellow-students  for  the  ludicrous  termina- 
tion of  his  orgie,  and  he  was  ashamed  to  meet  his  city  acquaint- 
ances after  the  degrading  chastisement  received  in  their 
presence,  and  after  their  own  ignominious  expulsion.  Above 
all,  he  felt  it  impossible  to  submit  any  longer  to  the  insultiug 
tyranny  of  Wilder ;  he  determined,  therefore,  to  leave,  not 
merely  the  college,  but  also  his  native  land,  and  to  bury  what 
he  conceived  to  be  his  irretrievable  disgrace  in  some  distant 
country.  He  accordingly  sold  his  books  and  clothes,  and  sal- 
lied forth  from  the  college  walls  the  very  next  day,  intending  to 
embark  at  Cork  for  —  he  scarce  knew  where  —  America,  or 
any  other  part  beyond  sea.  With  his  usual  heedless  impru- 
dence, however,  he  loitered  about  Dublin  until  his  finances  were 
reduced  to  a  shilling  ;  with  this  amount  of  specie  he  set  out  on 
his  journey. 

For  three  whole  days  he  subsisted  on  his  shilling  ;  when  that 
was  spent,  he  parted  with  some  of  the  clothes  from  his  back, 
until,  reduced  almost  to  nakedness,  he  was  four- and- twenty 
hours  without  food,  insomuch  that  he  declared  a  handful  of 
gray  pease,  given  to  him  by  a  girl  at  a  wake,  was  one  of  the 
most  delicious  repasts  he  had  ever  tasted.  Hunger,  fatigue, 
and  destitution  brought  down  his  spirit  and  calmed  his  anger. 
Fain  would  he  have  retraced  his  steps,  could  he  have  done  so 
with  any  salvo  for  the  lingerings  of  his  pride.  In  his  extrem- 
ity he  conveyed  to  his  brother  Henry  information  of  his  dis- 
tress, and  of  the  rash  project  on  which  he  had  set  out.  His 
affectionate  brother  hastened  to  his  relief ;  furnished  him  with 
money  and  clothes ;  soothed  his  feelings  with  gentle  counsel ; 
prevailed  upon  him  to  return  to  college,  and  effected  an  indif- 
ferent reconciliation  between  him  and  Wilder. 

After  this  irregular  sally  upon  life  he  remained  nearly  two 
years  longer  at  the  University,  giving  proofs  of  talent  in  occa- 
sional translations  from  the  classics,  for  one  of  which  he  received 
a  premium,  awarded  only  to  those  who  are  the  first  in  literary 
merit.  Still  he  never  made  much  figure  at  college,  his  natural 
disinclination  to  study  being  increased  by  the  harsh  treatment 
he  continued  to  experience  from  his  tutor. 

Among  the  anecdotes  told  of  him  while  at  college,  is  one  in- 
dicative of  that  prompt  but  thoughtless  and  often  whimsical 
benevolence  which  throughout  life  formed  one  of  the  most  ec» 


26  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

centric  yet  endearing  points  of  his  character.  He  was  engaged 
to  breakfast  one  day  with  a  college  intimate,  but  failed  to  make 
his  appearance.  His  friend  repaired  to  his  room,  knocked  at 
the  door,  and  was  bidden  to  enter.  To  his  surprise,  he  found 
Goldsmith  in  his  bed,  immersed  to  his  chin  in  feathers.  A 
serio-comic  story  explained  the  circumstance.  In  the  course 
of  the  preceding  evening's  stroll  he  had  met  with  a  woman  with 
five  children  who  implored  his  charity.  Her  husband  was  in 
the  hospital ;  she  was  just  from  the  country,  a  stranger,  and 
destitute,  without  food  or  shelter  for  her  helpless  offspring. 
This  was  too  much  for  the  kind  heart  of  Goldsmith.  He  was 
almost  as  poor  as  herself,  it  is  true,  and  had  no  money  in  his 
pocket ;  but  he  brought  her  to  the  college  gate,  gave  her  the 
blankets  from  his  bed  to  cover  her  little  brood,  and  part  of  his 
clothes  for  her  to  sell  and  purchase  food ;  and,  finding  himself 
cold  during  the  night,  had  cut  open  his  bed  and  buried  himself 
among  the  feathers. 

At  length,  on  the  27th  of  February,  1749,  O.  S.,  he  was 
admitted  to  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  and  took  his  final 
leave  of  the  University.  He  was  freed  from  college  rule,  that 
emancipation  so  ardently  coveted  by  the  thoughtless  student, 
and  which  too  generally  launches  him  amid  the  cares,  the 
hardships,  and  vicissitudes  of  life.  He  was  freed,  too,  from 
the  brutal  tyranny  of  Wilder.  If  his  kind  and  placable  nature 
could  retain  any  resentment  for  past  injuries,  it  might  have 
been  gratified  by  learning  subsequently  that  the  passionate 
career  of  Wilder  was  terminated  by  a  violent  death  in  the 
course  of  a  dissolute  brawl ;  but  Goldsmith  took  no  delight  in 
the  misfortunes  even  of  his  enemies. 

He  now  returned  to  his  friends,  no  longer  the  student  to  sport 
away  the  happy  interval  of  vacation,  but  the  anxious  man, 
who  is  henceforth  to  shift  for  himself  and  make  his  way 
through  the  world.  In  fact,  he  had  no  legitimate  home  to  re- 
turn to.  At  the  death  of  his  father,  the  paternal  house  at  Lis- 
soy,  in  which  Goldsmith  had  passed  his  childhood,  had  been 
taken  by  Mr.  Hodson,  who  had  married  his  sister  Catherine. 
His  mother  had  removed  to  Ballymahon,  where  she  occupied 
a  small  house,  and  had  to  practise  the  severest  frugality.  His 
elder  brother  Henry  served  the  curacy  and  taught  the  school 
of  his  late  father's  parish,  and  lived  in  narrow  circumstances 
at  Goldsmith's  birthplace,  the  old  goblin-house  at  Pallas. 

None  of  his  relatives  were  in  circumstances  to  aid  him  with 
any  thing  more  than  a  temporary  home,  and  the  aspect  of 
every  one  seemed  somewhat  changed.  In  fact,  his  career  at 


OLIVER  GOLDSMlTIt.  27 

college  had  disappointed  his  friends,  and  they  began  to  doubt 
his  being  the  great  genius  they  had  fancied  him.  He  whim- 
sically alludes  to  this  circumstance  in  that  piece  of  autobiog- 
raphy, "  The  Man  in  Black,"  in  the  Citizen  of  the  World. 

"  The  first  opportunity  my  father  had  of  finding  his  expecta- 
tions disappointed  was  in  the  middling  figure  I  made  at  the 
University  ;  he  had  flattered  himself  that  he  should  soon  see  me 
rising  into  the  foremost  rank  in  literary  reputation,  but  was 
mortified  to  find  me  utterly  unnoticed  and  unknown.  His 
disappointment  might  have  been  partly  ascribed  to  his  having 
overrated  my  talents,  and  partly  to  my  dislike  of  mathemati- 
cal reasonings  at  a  time  when  my  imagination  and  memory, 
yet  unsatisfied,  were  more  eager  after  new  objects  than  desir- 
ous of  reasoning  upon  those  I  knew.  This,  however,  did  noi 
please  my  tutors,  who  observed,  indeed,  that  I  was  a  little 
dull,  but  at  the  same  time  allowed  that  I  seemed  to  be  very 
good-natured,  and  had  no  harm  in  me."  1 

The  only  one  of  his  relatives  who  did  not  appear  to  lose  faith 
in  him  was  his  uncle  Contarine.  This  kind  and  considerate 
man,  it  is  said,  saw  in  him  a  warmth  of  heart  requiring  some 
skill  to  direct,  and  a  latent  genius  that  wanted  time  to  mature, 
and  these  impressions  none  of  his  subsequent  follies  and  irregu- 
larities wholly  obliterated.  His  purse  and  affection,  therefore, 
as  well  as  his  house,  were  now  open  to  him,  and  he  became  his 
chief  counsellor  and  director  after  his  father's  death.  He 
urged  him  to  prepare  for  holy  orders,  and  others  of  his  rela- 
tives concurred  in  the  advice.  Goldsmith  had  a  settled  repug- 
nance to  a  clerical  life.  This  has  been  ascribed  by  some  to 
conscientious  scruples,  not  considering  himself  of  a  temper  and 
frame  of  mind  for  such  a  sacred  office ;  others  attributed  it  to 
his  roving  propensities,  and  his  desire  to  visit  foreign  countries ; 
he  himself  gives  a  whimsical  objection  in  his  biography  of  the 
"  Man  in  Black  :  "  "  To  be  obliged  to  wear  a  long  wig  when  I 
liked  a  short  one,  or  a  black  coat  when  I  generally  dressed  in 
brown,  I  thought  such  a  restraint  upon  my  liberty  that  I  abso- 
lutely rejected  the  proposal." 

In  effect,  however,  his  scruples  were  overruled,  and  he 
agreed  to  qualify  himself  for  the  office.  He  was  now  only 
twenty-one,  and  must  pass  two  years  of  probation.  They  were 
two  years  of  rather  loitering,  unsettled  life.  Sometimes  he  was 
at  Lissoy,  participating  with  thoughtless  enjoyment  in  the 
rural  sports  and  occupations  of  his  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Hodson  ; 

*  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  xxvii. 


28  OLIVER   GOLDSMITS. 

sometimes  he  was  with  his  brother  Henry,  at  the  old  goblin 
mansion  at  Pallas,  assisting  him  occasionally  in  his  school. 
The  early  marriage  and  unambitious  retirement  of  Henry, 
though  so  subversive  of  the  fond  plans  of  his  father,  had 
proved  happy  in  their  results.  He  was  already  surrounded  by 
a  blooming  family ;  he  was  contented  with  his  lot,  beloved  by 
his  parishioners,  and  lived  in  the  daily  practise  of  all  the  ami- 
able virtues,  and  the  immediate  enjoyment  of  their  reward. 
Of  the  tender  affection  inspired  in  the  breast  of  Goldsmith  by 
the  constant  kindness  of  this  excellent  brother,  and  of  the 
longing  recollection  with  which,  in  the  lonely  wanderings  of 
after  years,  he  looked  back  upon  this  scene  of  domestic  felicity, 
we  have  a  touching  instance  in  the  well-known  opening  to  his 
poem  of  "  The  Traveller :  " 

"  Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld  or  wandering  Po; 


Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart  untravell'd  fondly  turns  to  thee; 
Still  to  my  brother  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

"Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend; 
Bless'd  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire; 
Bless'd  that  abode  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair  : 

•'  Bless'd  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown'd, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good." 

During  this  loitering  life  Goldsmith  pursued  no  study,  but 
rather  amused  himself  with  miscellaneous  reading ;  such  as 
biography,  travels,  poetry,  novels,  plays  —  every  thing,  in  short, 
that  administered  to  the  imagination.  Sometimes  he  strolled 
along  the  banks  of  the  river  Inny,  where,  in  after  years,  when 
he  had  become  famous,  his  favorite  seats  and  haunts  used  to 
be  pointed  out.  Often  he  joined  in  the  rustic  sports  of  the 
villagers,  and  became  adroit  at  throwing  the  sledge,  a  favorite 
feat  of  activity  and  strength  in  Ireland.  Recollections  of  these 
"  healthful  sports  "  we  find  in  his  "  Deserted  Village  :  " 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  29 

"How  often  hare  I  bless 'd  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree  : 
And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round." 

A  boon  companion  in  all  his  rural  amusements  was  his  cousin 
and  college  crony,  Robert  Bryanton,  with  whom  he  sojourned 
occasionally  at  Ballymulvey  House  in  the  neighborhood.  They 
used  to  make  excursions  about  the  country  on  foot,  sometimes 
fishing,  sometimes  hunting  otter  in  the  Inny.  They  got  up  a 
country  club  at  the  little  inn  of  Ballymahon,  of  which  Gold- 
smith soon  became  the  oracle  and  prime  wit,  astonishing  his 
unlettered  associates  by  his  learning,  and  being  considered 
capital  at  a  song  and  a  story.  From  the  rustic  conviviality  of 
the  inn  at  Ballymahon,  and  the  company  which  used  to  assem- 
ble there,  it  is  surmised  that  he  took  some  hints  in  after  life 
for  his  picturing  of  Tony  Lumpkin  and  his  associates:  "Dick 
Muggins,  the  exciseman ;  Jack  Slang,  the  horse  doctor ;  little 
Aminidab,  that  grinds  the  music-box,  and  Tom  Twist,  that 
spins  the  pewter  platter."  Nay,  it  is  thought,  that  Tony's 
drinking  song  at  the  "  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  "  was  but  a  revival 
of  one  of  the  convivial  catches  at  Ballymahon : 

"  Then  come  put  the  jorum  about, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever, 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here's  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  forever. 
Let  some  cry  of  woodcock  or  hare, 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons. 
But  of  all  the  gay  birds  in  the  air, 

Here's  a  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 
Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll." 

Notwithstanding  all  these  accomplishments  and  this  rural 
popularity,  his  friends  began  to  shake  their  heads  and  shrug 
their  shoulders  when  they  spoke  of  him ;  and  his  brother 
Henry  noted  with  any  thing  but  satisfaction  his  frequent  visits 
to  the  club  at  Ballymahon.  He  emerged,  however,  unscathed 
from  this  dangerous  ordeal,  more  fortunate  in  this  respect 
than  his  comrade  Bryanton  ;  but  he  retained  throughout  life 
a  fondness  for  clubs  ;  often,  too,  in  the  course  of  his  checkered 
career,  he  looked  back  to  this  period  of  rural  sports  and  care- 
less enjoyments  as  one  of  the  few  sunny  spots  of  his  cloudy 
life  ;  and  though  he  ultimately  rose  to  associate  with  birds  of 
a  finer  feather,  his  heart  would  still  yearn  in  secret  after  the 
"THREE  JOLLT  PIGEONS." 


30  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER   in. 

GOLDSMITH   REJECTED     BY   THE    BISHOP SECOND     SALLY    TO     SEE 

THE  WORLD TAKES  PASSAGE  FOR  AMERICA  —  SHIP  SAILS  WITH- 
OUT HIM  —  RETURN  ON  FIDDLE-BACK A  HOSPITABLE  FRIEND 

THE   COUNSELLOR. 

THE  time  had  now  arrived  for  Goldsmith  to  apply  for  orders, 
and  he  presented  himself  accordingly  before  the  Bishop  of 
Elphin  for  ordination.  "We  have  stated  his  great  objection  to 
clerical  life,  the  obligation  to  wear  a  black  coat;  and,  whim- 
sical as  it  may  appear,  dress  seems  in  fact  to  have  formed 
an  obstacle  to  his  entrance  into  the  church.  He  had  ever  a 
passion  for  clothing  his  sturdy  but  awkward  little  person  in  gay 
colors ;  and  on  this  solemn  occasion,  when  it  was  to  be  sup- 
posed his  garb  would  be  of  suitable  gravity,  he  appeared  lumi- 
nously arrayed  in  scarlet  breeches !  He  was  rejected  by  the 
bishop ;  some  say  for  want  of  sufficient  studious  preparation ; 
his  rambles  and  frolics  with  Bob  Bryanton,  and  his  revels  with 
the  club  at  Ballymahon,  having  been  much  in  the  way  of  his 
theological  studies ;  others  attribute  his  rejection  to  reports 
of  his  college  irregularities,  which  the  bishop  had  received  from 
his  old  tyrant  Wilder  ;  but  those  who  look  into  the  matter  with 
more  knowing  eyes  pronounce  the  scarlet  breeches  to  have  been 
the  fundamental  objection.  "My  friends,"  says  Goldsmith, 
speaking  through  his  humorous  representative,  the  "  Man  in 
Black"  — "  my  friends  were  now  perfectly  satisfied  I  was 
undone ;  and  yet  they  thought  it  a  pity  for  one  that  had  not 
the  least  harm  in  him,  and  was  so  very  good-natured."  His 
uncle  Contarine,  however,  still  remained  unwavering  in  his 
kindness,  though  much  less  sanguine  in  his  expectations.  He 
now  looked  round  for  a  humbler  sphere  of  action,  and  through 
his  influence  and  exertions  Oliver  was  received  as  tutor  in  the 
family  of  a  Mr.  Flinn,  a  gentleman  of  the  neighborhood.  The 
situation  was  apparently  respectable ;  he  had  his  seat  at  the 
table,  and  joined  the  family  in  their  domestic  recreations  and 
their  evening  game  at  cards.  There  was  a  servility,  however, 
in  his  position,  which  was  not  to  his  taste ;  nor  did  his  defer- 
ence for  the  family  increase  upon  familiar  intercourse.  He 
charged  a  member  of  it  with  unfair  play  at  cards.  A  violent 
altercation  ensued,  which  ended  in  his  throwing  up  his  situa- 
tion as  tutor.  On  being  paid  off  he  found  himself  in  possession 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  31 

of  an  unheard-of  amount  of  money.  His  wandering  propen- 
sity and  his  desire  to  see  the  world  were  instantly  in  the  ascend- 
ency. Without  communicating  his  plans  or  intentions  to  his 
friends,  he  procured  a  good  horse,  and  with  thirty  pounds  iu 
his  pocket  made  his  second  sally  forth  into  the  world. 

The  worthy  niece  and  housekeeper  of  the  hero  of  La  Mancha 
could  not  have  been  more  surprised  and  dismayed  at  one  of  the 
Don's  clandestine  expeditions,  than  were  the  mother  and  friends 
of  Goldsmith  when  they  heard  of  his  mysterious  departure. 
Weeks  elapsed,  and  nothing  was  seen  or  heard  of  him.  It  was 
feared  that  he  had  left  the  country  on  one  of  his  wandering 
freaks,  and  his  poor  mother  was  reduced  almost  to  despair, 
when  one  day  he  arrived  at  her  door  almost  as  forlorn  in  plight 
as  the  prodigal  son.  Of  his  thirty  pounds  not  a  shilling  was 
left ;  and  instead  of  the  goodly  steed  on  which  he  had  issued 
forth  on  his  errantry,  he  was  mounted  on  a  sorry  little  pony, 
which  he  had  nicknamed  Fiddle-back.  As  soon  as  his  mother 
was  well  assured  of  his  safety,  she  rated  him  soundly  for  his 
inconsiderate  conduct.  His  brothers  and  sisters,  who  were  ten- 
derly attached  to  him,  interfered,  and  succeeded  in  mollifying 
her  ire  ;  and  whatever  lurking  anger  the  good  dame  might  have, 
was  no  doubt  effectually  vanquished  by  the  following  whimsical 
narrative  which  he  drew  up  at  his  brother's  house  and  despatched 
to  her : 

"  My  dear  mother,  if  you  will  sit  down  and  calmly  listen  to 
what  I  say,  you  shall  be  fully  resolved  in  every  one  of  those 
many  questions  you  have  asked  me.  I  went  to  Cork  and  con- 
verted my  horse,  which  you  prize  so  much  higher  than  Fiddle- 
back,  into  cash,  took  my  passage  in  a  ship  bound  for  America^ 
and,  at  the  same  time,  paid  the  captain  for  my  freight  and  all 
the  other  expenses  of  my  voyage.  But  it  so  happened  that  tha 
wind  did  not  answer  for  three  weeks ;  and  you  know,  mother^ 
that  I  could  not  command  the  elements.  My  misfortune  was, 
that,  when  the  wind  served,  I  happened  to  be  with  a  party  in 
the  country,  and  my  friend  the  captain  never  inquired  after  rne> 
but  set  sail  with  as  much  indifference  as  if  I  had  been  on  board. 
The  remainder  of  my  time  I  employed  in  the  city  and  its  en- 
virons, viewing  every  thing  curious,  and  you  know  no  one  can 
starve  while  he  has  money  in  his  pocket. 

"  Reduced,  however,  to  my  last  two  guineas,  I  began  to  think 
of  my  dear  mother  and  friends  whom  I  had  left  behind  me,  and 
so  bought  that  generous  beast  Fiddle-back,  and  bade  adieu  to 
Cork  with  only  five  shillings  in  my  pocket.  This,  to  be  sure, 
was  but  a  scanty  allowance  for  man  and  horse  toward  a  journey 


32  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

of  above  a  hundred  miles  ;  but  I  did  not  despair,  for  I  knew  I 
must  find  friends  on  the  road. 

"  I  recollected  particularly  an  old  and  faithful  acquaintance 
I  made  at  college,  who  had  often  and  earnestly  pressed  me  to 
spend  a  summer  with  him,  and  he  lived  but  eight  miles  from 
Cork.  This  circumstance  of  vicinity  he  would  expatiate  on  to 
me  with  peculiar  emphasis.  'We  shall,'  says  he,  'enjoy  the 
delights  of  both  city  and  country,  and  you  shall  command  my 
stable  and  my  purse.' 

"However,  upon  the  way  I  met  a  poor  woman  all  in  tears, 
who  told  me  her  husband  had  been  arrested  for  a  debt  he  was 
not  able  to  pay,  and  that  his  eight  children  must  now  starve, 
bereaved  as  they  were  of  his  industry,  which  had  been  their  only 
support.  I  thought  myself  at  home,  being  not  far  from  my 
good  friend's  house,  and  therefore  parted  with  a  moiety  of  all 
my  store ;  and  pray,  mother,  ought  I  not  have  given  her  the 
other  half  crown,  for  what  she  got  would  be  of  little  use  to  her? 
However,  I  soon  arrived  at  the  mansion  of  my  affectionate 
friend,  guarded  by  the  vigilance  of  a  huge  mastiff,  who  flew  at 
me  and  would  have  torn  me  to  pieces  but  for  the  assistance  of  a 
woman,  whose  countenance  was  not  less  grim  than  that  of  the 
dog  ;  yet  she  with  great  humanity  relieved  me  from  the  jaws  of 
this  Cerberus,  and  was  prevailed  on  to  carry  up  my  name  to  her 
master. 

"  Without  suffering  me  to  wait  long,  my  old  friend,  who  was 
then  recovering  from  a  severe  fit  of  sickness,  came  down  in  his 
nightcap,  nightgown,  and  slippers,  and  embraced  me  with  the 
most  cordial  welcome,  showed  me  in,  and,  after  giving  me  a 
history  of  his  indisposition,  assured  me  that  he  considered  him- 
self peculiarly  fortunate  in  having  under  his  roof  the  man  he 
most  loved  on  earth,  and  whose  stay  with  him  must,  above  all 
things,  contribute  to  perfect  his  recovery.  I  now  repented 
sorely  I  had  not  given  the  poor  woman  the  other  half  crown,  as 
I  thought  all  my  bills  of  humanity  would  be  punctually  answered 
by  this  worthy  man.  I  revealed  to  him  my  whole  soul ;  I  opened 
to  him  all  my  distresses ;  and  freely  owned  that  I  had  but  one 
half  crown  in  my  pocket ;  but  that  now,  like  a  ship  after  weath- 
ering out  the  storm,  I  considered  myself  secure  in  a  safe  and 
hospitable  harbor.  He  made  no  answer,  but  walked  about  the 
room,  rubbing  his  hands  as  one  in  deep  study.  This  I  imputed 
to  the  sympathetic  feelings  of  a  tender  heart,  which  increased 
my  esteem  for  him,  and,  as  that  increased,  I  gave  the  most  fa- 
vorable interpretation  to  his  silence.  I  construed  it  into  delicacy 
of  sentiment,  as  if  he  dreaded  to  wound  my  pride  by  expressing 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  33 

his  commiseration  in  words,  leaving  his  generous  conduct  to 
speak  for  itself. 

"  It  now  approached,  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  ;  and  as  I  had 
eaten  no  breakfast,  and  as  my  spirits  were  raised,  my  appetite 
for  dinner  grew  uncommonly  keen.  At  length  the  old  woman 
came  into  the  room  with  two  plates,  one  spoon,  and  a  dirty  cloth, 
which  she  laid  upon  the  table.  This  appearance,  without  in- 
creasing my  spirits,  did  not  diminish  my  appetite.  My  protec- 
tress soon  returned  with  a  small  bowl  of  sago,  a  small  porringer 
of  sour  milk,  a  loaf  of  stale  brown  bread,  and  the  heel  of  an  old 
cheese  all  over  crawling  with  mites.  My  friend  apologized  that 
his  illness  obliged  him  to  live  on  slops,  and  that  better  fare  was 
not  in  the  house ;  observing,  at  the  same  time,  that  a  milk  diet 
was  certainly  the  most  healthful ;  and  at  eight  o'clock  he  again 
recommended  a  regular  life,  declaring  that  for  his  part  he  would 
lie  down  with  the  lamb  and  rise  with  the  lark.  My  hunger  was 
at  this  time  so  exceedingly  sharp  that  I  wished  for  another  slice 
of  the  loaf,  but  was  obliged  to  go  to  bed  without  even  that  re- 
freshment. 

"  This  lenten  entertainment  I  had  received  made  me  resolve 
to  depart  as  soon  as  possible  ;  accordingly,  next  morning,  when 
I  spoke  of  going,  he  did  not  oppose  my  resolution  ;  he  rather 
commended  my  design,  adding  some  very  sage  counsel  upon  the 
occasion.  'To  be  sure,'  said  he,  'the  longer  you  stay  away 
from  your  mother,  the  more  you  will  grieve  her  and  your  other 
friends ;  and  possibly  they  are  already  afflicted  at  hearing  of 
this  foolish  expedition  you  have  made.'  Notwithstanding  all 
this,  and  without  any  hope  of  softening  such  a  sordid  heart,  I 
again  renewed  the  tale  of  my  distress,  and  asking  '  how  he 
thought  I  could  travel  above  a  hundred  miles  upon  one  half 
crown  ? '  I  begged  to  borrow  a  single  guinea,  which  I  assured 
him  should  be  repaid  with  thanks.  '  And  you  know,  sir,'  said 
I,  '  it  is  no  more  than  I  have  done  for  you.'  To  which  he  firmly 
answered,  '  Why,  look  you,  Mr.  Goldsmith,  that  is  neither  here 
nor  there.  I  have  paid  you  all  you  ever  lent  me,  and  this  sick- 
ness of  mine  has  left  me  bare  of  cash.  But  I  have  bethought 
myself  of  a  conveyance  for  you  ;  sell  your  horse,  and  I  will  fur- 
nish you  a  much  better  one  to  ride  on.'  I  readily  grasped  at 
his  proposal,  and  begged  to  see  the  nag ;  on  which  he  led  me  to 
his  bedchamber,  and  from  under  the  bed  he  pulled  out  a  stout 
oak  stick.  l  Here  he  is,'  said  he  ;  '  take  this  in  your  hand,  and 
it  will  carry  you  to  your  mother's  with  more  safety  than  such  a 
horse  as  you  ride.'  I  was  in  doubt,  when  1  got  it  into  my 
band,  whether  I  should  not.  in  the  Gist,  place,  apply  it  to  hia 


34  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

pate  ;  but  a  rap  at  the  street  door  made  the  wretch  fly  to  it,  and 
when  I  returned  to  the  parlor,  he  introduced  me,  as  if  nothing 
of  the  kind  had  happened,  to  the  gentleman  who  entered,  as  Mr. 
Goldsmith,  his  most  ingenious  and  worthy  friend,  of  whom  he 
had  so  often  heard  him  speak  with  rapture.  I  could  scarcely 
compose  myself,  and  must  have  betrayed  indignation  in  my  mien 
to  the  stranger,  who  was  a  counsellor-at-law  in  the  neighborhood, 
a  man  of  engaging  aspect  and  polite  address. 

"  After  spending  an  hour,  he  asked  my  friend  and  me  to 
dine  with  him  at  his  house.  This  I  declined  at  first,  as  I  wished 
to  have  no  farther  communication  with  my  hospitable  friend ; 
but  at  the  solicitation  of  both  I  at  last  consented,  determined  as 
I  was  by  two  motives :  one,  that  I  was  prejudiced  in  favor  of 
the  looks  and  manner  of  the  counsellor ;  and  the  other,  that  I 
stood  in  need  of  a  comfortable  dinner.  And  there,  indeed,  I 
found  every  thing  that  I  could  wish,  abundance  without  pro- 
fusion, and  elegance  without  affectation.  In  the  evening,  when 
my  old  friend,  who  had  eaten  very  plentifully  at  his  neighbor's 
table,  but  talked  again  of  lying  down  with  the  lamb,  made  a 
motion  to  me  for  retiring,  our  generous  host  requested  I  should 
take  a  bed  with  him,  upon  which  I  plainly  told  my  old  friend 
that  he  might  go  home  and  take  care  of  the  horse  he  had  given 
me,  but  that  I  should  never  re-enter  his  doors.  He  went  away 
with  a  laugh,  leaving  me  to  add  this  to  the  other  little  things 
the  counsellor  already  knew  of  his  plausible  neighbor. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  mother,  I  found  sufficient  to  reconcile 
me  to  all  my  follies ;  for  here  I  spent  three  whole  days.  The 
counsellor  had  two  sweet  girls  to  his  daughters,  who  played 
enchantingly  on  the  harpsichord ;  and  yet  it  was  but  a  mel- 
ancholy pleasure  I  felt  the  first  time  I  heard  them  ;  for  that 
being  the  first  time  also  that  either  of  them  had  touched  the 
instrument  since  their  mother's  death,  I  saw  the  tears  in  silence 
trickle  down  their  father's  cheeks.  I  every  day  endeavored  to 
go  avay,  but  every  day  was  pressed  and  obliged  to  stay.  On 
my  going,  the  counsellor  offered  me  his  purse,  with  a  horse  and 
servant  to  convey  me  home  ;  but  the  latter  I  declined,  and  only 
took  a  guinea  to  bear  my  necessary  expenses  on  the  road. 

"OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 
"  To  Mrs.  Anne  Goldsmith,  Ballymahon." 

Such  is  the  story  given  by  the  poet-errant  of  this  his  second 
sally  in  quest  of  adventures.  We  cannot  but  think  it  was 
here  and  there  touched  up  a  little  with  the  fanciful  pen  of  the 
future  essayist,  with  a  view  to  amuse  his  mother  and  soften 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  35 

her  vexation  ;  but  even  in  these  respects  it  is  valuable  as  show- 
ing the  early  play  of  his  humor,  and  his  happy  knack  of  ex- 
tracting sweets  from  that  worldly  experience  which  to  others 
yields  nothing  but  bitterness. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SALLIES    FORTH   AS    A    LAW   STUDENT STUMBLES    AT   THE    OUTSET 

—  COUSIN    JANE    AND    THE    VALENTINE  —  A    FAMILY    ORACLE  — 

SALLIES  FORTH  AS    A    STUDENT    OF    MEDICINE HOCUS-POCUS    OF 

A    BOARDING-HOUSE TRANSFORMATIONS    OF    A  LEG  OF    MUTTON 

—  THE    MOCK    GHOST  —  SKETCHES     OF    SCOTLAND  —  TRIALS    OP 
TOADYISM — A   POET*S   PURSE    FOR   A    CONTINENTAL   TOUR. 

A  NEW  consultation  was  held  among  Goldsmith's  friends  as 
to  his  future  course,  and  it  was  determined  he  should  try  the 
law.  His  uncle  Contarine  agreed  to  advance  the  necessary 
funds,  and  actually  furnished  him  with  fifty  pounds,  with 
which  he  set  off  for  London,  to  enter  on  his  studies  at  the 
Temple.  Unfortunately,  he  fell  in  company  at  Dublin  with  a 
Roscommon  acquaintance,  one  whose  wits  had  been  sharpened 
about  town,  who  beguiled  him  into  a  gambling-house,  and 
soon  left  him  as  penniless  as  when  he  bestrode  the  redoubtable 
Fiddle-back. 

He  was  so  ashamed  of  this  fresh  instance  of  gross  heedless- 
ness  and  imprudence  that  he  remained  some  time  in  Dublin 
without  communicating  to  his  friends  his  destitute  condition. 
They  heard  of  it,  however,  and  he  was  invited  back  to  th< 
country,  and  indulgently  forgiven  by  his  generous  uncle,  bu, 
less  readily  by  his  mother,  who  was  mortified  and  disheart- 
ened at  seeing  all  her  early  hopes  of  him  so  repeatedly  blighted. 
His  brother  Henry,  too,  began  to  lose  patience  at  these  suc- 
cessive failures,  resulting  from  thoughtless  indiscretion  ;  and 
a  quarrel  took  place,  which  for  some  time  interrupted  their 
usually  affectionate  intercourse. 

The  only  home  where  poor  erring  Goldsmith  still  received  a 
welcome  was  the  parsonage  of  his  affectionate,  forgiving  uncle. 
Here  he  used  to  talk  of  literature  with  the  good,  simple-hearted 
man,  and  delight  him  and  his  daughter  with  his  verses.  Jane, 
his  early  playmate,  was  now  the  woman  grown  ;  their  inter- 
course was  of  a  more  intellectual  kind  than  formerly ;  they 
discoursed  of  poetry  and  music ;  she  played  on  the  harpsichord, 


36  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

and  he  accompanied  her  with  his  flute.  The  music  may  not 
have  been  very  artistic,  as  he  never  performed  but  by  ear ;  it 
had  probably  as  much  merit  as  the  poetry,  which,  if  we  may 
judge  by  the  following  specimen,  was  as  yet  but  juvenile : 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  ON  VALENTINE'S  DAY. 

WITH  THE  DRAWING  OP  A  HEABT. 

With  submission  at  your  shrine, 
Comes  a  heart  your  Valentine; 
From  the  side  where  once  it  grew, 
See  it  panting  flies  to  you. 
Take  it,  fair  one,  to  your  breast, 
Soothe  the  fluttering  thing  to  rest; 
Let  the  gentle,  spotless  toy, 
Be  your  sweetest,  greatest  joy; 
Every  night  when  wrapp'd  in  sleep, 
Next  your  heart  the  conquest  keep; 
Or  if  dreams  your  fancy  move, 
Hear  it  whisper  me  and  love; 
Then  in  pity  to  the  swain, 
Who  must  heartless  else  remain, 
Soft  as  gentle  dewy  show'rs, 
Slow  descend  .on  April  flow'rs; 
Soft  as  gentle  riv'lets  glide, 
Steal  unnoticed  to  my  side ; 
If  the  gem  you  have  to  spare, 
Take  your  own  and  place  it  there. 

If  this  valentine  was  intended  for  the  fair  Jane,  and  expres- 
sive of  a  tender  sentiment  indulged  by  the  stripling  poet,  it 
was  unavailing,  as  not  long  afterward  she  was  married  to  a 
Mr.  Lawder.  We  trust,  however,  it  was  but  a  poetical  pas- 
sion of  that  transient  kind  which  grows  up  in  idleness  and  ex- 
hales itself  in  rhyme.  While  Oliver  was  thus  piping  and 
poetizing  at  the  parsonage,  his  uncle  Gontarine  received  a  visit 
from  Dean  Goldsmith  of  Cloyne ;  a  kind  of  magnate  in  the 
wide  but  improvident  family  connection,  throughout  which 
his  word  was  law  and  almost  gospel.  This  august  dignitary 
was  pleased  to  discover  signs  of  talent  in  Oliver,  and  suggested 
that  as  he  had  attempted  divinity  and  law  without  success,  he 
should  now  try  physic.  The  advice  came  from  too  important 
a  source  to  be  disregarded,  and  it  was  determined  to  send  him 
to  Edinburgh  to  commence  his  studies.  The  Dean  having 
given  the  advice,  added  to  it,  we  trust,  his  blessing,  but  no 
money ;  that  was  furnished  from  the  scantier  purses  of  Gold- 
smith's brother,  his  sister  (Mrs.  Hodson)  and  his  ever  ready 
uncle,  Contarine. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  37 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of  1752  that  Goldsmith  arrived  in 
Edinburgh.  His  outset  in  that  city  came  near  adding  to  the 
list  of  his  indiscretions  and  disasters.  Having  taken  lodgings 
at  haphazard,  he  left  his  trunk  there,  containing  all  his  worldly 
effects,  and  sallied  forth  to  see  the  town.  After  sauntering 
about  the  streets  until  a  late  hour,  he  thought  of  returning 
home,  when,  to  his  confusion,  he  found  he  had  not  acquainted 
himself  with  the  name  either  of  his  landlady  or  of  the  street  in 
which  she  lived.  Fortunately,  in  the  height  of  his  whimsical 
perplexity,  he  met  the  cawdy  or  porter  who  had  carried  his 
trunk,  and  who  now  served  him  as  a  guide. 

He  did  not  remain  long  in  the  lodgings  in  which  he  had  put 
up.  The  hostess  was  too  adroit  at  that  hocus-pocus  of  the 
table  which  often  is  practised  in  cheap  boarding-houses.  No 
one  could  conjure  a  single  joint  through  a  greater  variety  of 
forms.  A  loin  of  mutton,  according  to  Goldsmith's  account, 
would  serve  him  and  two  fellow-students  a  whole  week.  "A 
braudered  chop  was  served  up  one  day,  a  fried  steak  another, 
collops  with  onion  sauce  a  third,  and  so  on  until  the  fleshy 
parts  were  quite  consumed,  when  finally  a  dish  of  broth  was 
manufactured  from  the  bones  on  the  seventh  day,  and  the 
landlady  rested  from  her  labors."  Goldsmith  had  a  good- 
humored  mode  of  taking  things,  and  for  a  short  time  amused 
himself  with  the  shifts  and  expedients  of  his  landlady,  which 
struck  him  in  a  ludicrous  manner ;  he  soon,  however,  fell  in 
with  fellow-students  from  his  own  country,  whom  he  joined  at 
more  eligible  quarters. 

He  now  attended  medical  lectures,  and  attached  himself  to 
an  association  of  students  called  the  Medical  Society.  He  set 
out,  as  usual,  with  the  best  intentions,  but,  as  usual,  soon  fell 
into  idle,  convivial,,  thoughtless  habits.  Edinburgh  was  in- 
deed a  place  of  sore  trial  for  one  of  his  temperament.  Con- 
vivial meetings  were  all  the  vogue,  and  the  tavern  was  the 
universal  rallying-place  of  good-fellowship.  And  then  Gold- 
smith's intimacies  lay  chiefly  among  the  Irish  students,  who 
were  always  ready  for  a  wild  freak  and  frolic.  Among  them 
he  was  a  prime  favorite  and  somewhat  of  a  leader,  from  his 
exuberance  of  spirits,  his  vein  of  humor,  and  his  talent  at 
singing  an  Irish  song  and  telling  au  Irish  story. 

His  usual  carelessness  in  money  matters  attended  him. 
Though  his  supplies  from  home  were  scanty  and  irregular,  he 
never  could  bring  himself  into  habits  of  prudence  and  econ- 
omy ;  often  he  was  stripped  of  all  his  present  finances  at  play ; 
often  he  lavished  them  away  in  fits  of  unguarded  charity  or 


38  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

generosity.  Sometimes  among  his  boon  companions  he  as- 
sumed a  ludicrous  swagger  in  money  matters,  which  no  one 
afterward  was  more  ready  than  himself  to  laugh  at.  At  a 
convivial  meeting  with  a  number  of  his  fellow-students,  he 
suddenly  proposed  to  draw  lots  with  any  one  present  which 
of  the  two  should  treat  the  whole  party  to  the  play.  The 
moment  the  proposition  had  bolted  from  his  lips,  his  heart 
was  in  his  throat.  "  To  my  great  though  secret  joy,"  said  he, 
"they  all  declined  the  challenge.  Had  it  been  accepted,  and 
had  I  proved  the  loser,  a  part  of  my  wardrobe  must  have  been 
pledged  in  order  to  raise  the  money." 

At  another  of  these  meetings  there  was  an  earnest  dispute 
on  the  question  of  ghosts,  some  being  firm  believers  in  the  pos- 
sibility of  departed  spirits  returning  to  visit  their  friends  and 
familiar  haunts.  One  of  the  disputants  set  sail  the  next  day 
for  London,  but  the  vessel  put  back  through  stress  of  weather. 
His  return  was  unknown  except  to  one  of  the  believers  in 
ghosts,  who  concerted  with  him  a  trick  to  be  played  off  on  the 
opposite  party.  In  the  evening,  at  a  meeting  of  the  students, 
the  discussion  was  renewed ;  and  one  of  the  most  strenuous 
opposers  of  ghosts  was  asked  whether  he  considered  himself 
proof  against  ocular  demonstration?  He  persisted  in  his 
scoffing.  Some  solemn  process  of  conjuration  was  performed, 
and  the  comrade  supposed  to  be  on  his  way  to  London  made 
his  appearance.  The  effect  was  fatal.  The  unbeliever  fainted 
at  the  sight,  and  ultimately  went  mad.  We  have  no  account  of 
what  share  Goldsmith  took  in  this  transaction,  at  which  he  was 
present. 

The  following  letter  to  his  friend  Bryanton  contains  some  of 
Goldsmith's  impressions  concerning  Scotland  and  its  inhabit- 
ants, and  gives  indications  of  that  humor  which  characterized 
some  of  his  letter  writings. 


" Robert  Bryanton,  at  Battymahon,  Ireland. 

"  EDINBURGH,  September  26, 1753. 

"Mr  DEAR  BOB:  How  many  good  excuses  (and  you  know 
I  was  ever  good  at  an  excuse)  might  I  call  up  to  vindicate  my 
past  shameful  silence.  I  might  tell  how  I  wrote  a  long  letter 
on  my  first  coming  hither,  and  seem  vastly  angry  at  my  not 
receiving  an  answer ;  I  might  allege  that  business  (with  busi- 
ness you  know  I  was  always  pestered)  had  never  given  me 
time  to  finger  a  pen.  But  I  suppress  those  aud  twenty  more 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  39 

as  plausible,  and  as  easily  invented,  since  they  might  be  at- 
tended with  a  slight  inconvenience  of  being  known  to  be  lies. 
Let  me  then  speak  truth.  An  hereditary  indolence  (I  have  it 
from  the  mother's  side)  has  hitherto  prevented  my  writing  to 
you,  and  still  prevents  my  writing  at  least  twenty-five  letters 
more,  due  to  my  friends  in  Ireland.  No  turn-spit  dog  gets  up 
into  his  wheel  with  more  reluctance  than  I  sit  down  to  write ; 
yet  no  dog  ever  loved  the  roast  meat  he  turns  better  than  I  do 
him  I  now  address. 

"  Yet  what  shall  I  say  now  I  am  entered?  Shall  I  tire  you 
with  a  description  of  this  unfruitful  country ;  where  I  must 
lead  you  over  their  hills  all  brown  with  heath,  or  their  valleys 
scarcely  able  to  feed  a  rabbit  ?  Man  alone  seems  to  be  the  only 
creature  who  has  arrived  to  the  natural  size  in  this  poor  soil. 
Every  part  of  the  country  presents  the  same  dismal  landscape. 
No  grove,  nor  brook,  lend  their  music  to  cheer  the  stranger,  or 
make  the  inhabitants  forget  their  poverty.  Yet  with  all  these 
disadvantages  to  call  him  down  to  humility,  a  Scotchman  is 
one  of  the  proudest  things  alive.  The  poor  have  pride  ever 
ready  to  relieve  them.  If  mankind  should  happen  to  despise 
them,  they  are  masters  of  their  own  admiration,  and  that  they 
can  plentifully  bestow  upon  themselves. 

' '  From  their  pride  and  poverty,  as  I  take  it,  results  one  ad- 
vantage this  country  enjoys  —  namely,  the  gentlemen  here  are 
much  better  bred  than  among  us.  No  such  character  here  as 
our  fox-hunters  ;  and  they  have  expressed  great  surprise  when 
I  informed  them  that  some  men  in  Ireland  of  one  thousand 
pounds  a  year  spend  their  whole  lives  in  running  after  a  hare, 
and  drinking  to  be  drunk.  Truly  if  such  a  being,  equipped  in 
his  hunting  dress,  came  among  a  circle  of  Scotch  gentry,  they 
would  behold  him  with  the  same  astonishment  that  a  country- 
man does  King  George  on  horseback. 

"The  men  here  have  generally  high  cheekbones,  and  are 
lean  and  swarthy,  fond  of  action,  dancing  in  particular.  Now 
that  I  have  mentioned  dancing,  let  me  say  something  of  their 
balls,  which  are  very  frequent  here.  When  a  stranger  enters 
the  dancing-hall,  he  sees  one  end  of  the  room  taken  up  by  the 
ladies,  who  sit  dismally  in  a  group  by  themselves  ;  in  the  other 
end  stand  their  pensive  partners  that  are  to  be ;  but  no  more 
intercourse  between  the  sexes  than  there  is  'between  two 
countries  at  war.  The  ladies  indeed  may  ogle,  and  the  gentle- 
men sigh ;  but  an  embargo  is  laid  on  any  closer  commerce. 
At  length,  to  interrupt  hostilities,  the  lady  directress,  or  in- 
tendant,  or  what  you  will,  pitches  upon  a  lady  and  gentleman 


40  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

to  walk  a  minuet ;  which  they  perform  with  a  formality  that  ap- 
proaches to  despondence.  After  five  or  six  couple  have  thus 
walked  the  gantlet,  all  stand  up  to  country  dances ;  each 
gentleman  furnished  with  a  partner  from  the  aforesaid  lady 
directress ;  so  they  dance  much,  say  nothing,  and  thus  con- 
cludes our  assembly.  I  told  a  Scotch  gentleman  that  such 
profound  silence  resembled  the  ancient  procession  of  the  Roman 
matrons  in  honor  of  Ceres ;  and  the  Scotch  gentleman  told  me 
(and,  faith,  I  believe  he  was  right)  that  I  was  a  very  great 
pedant  for  my  pains. 

"  Now  I  am  come  to  the  ladies ;  and  to  show  that  I  love 
Scotland,  and  every  thing  that  belongs  to  so  charming  a 
country,  I  insist  on  it,  and  will  give  him  leave  to  break  my 
head  that  denies  it  —  that  the  Scotch  ladies  are  ten  thousand 
times  finer  and  handsomer  than  the  Irish.  To  be  sure,  now, 
I  see  your  sisters  Betty  and  Peggy  vastly  surprised  at  my 
partiality  —  but  tell  them  flatly,  I  don't  value  them  —  or  their 

fine  skins,  or  eyes,  or  good  sense,  or ,  a  potato  ;  —  for  I  say, 

and  will  maintain  it ;  and  as  a  convincing  proof  (I  am  in  a 
great  passion)  of  what  I  assert,  the  Scotch  ladies  say  it  them- 
selves. But  to  be  less  serious  ;  where  will  you  find  a  language 
so  prettily  become  a  pretty  mouth  as  the  broad  Scotch  ?  And 
the  women  here  speak  it  in  its  highest  purity ;  for  instance, 
teach  one  of  your  young  ladies  at  home  to  pronounce  the 
'  Whoar  wull  I  gong  ? '  with  a  becoming  widening  of  mouth, 
and  I'll  lay  my  life  they'll  wound  every  hearer. 

"  We  have  no  such  character  here  as  a  coquette,  but  alas  !  how 
many  envious  prudes  !  Some  days  ago  I  walked  into  my  Lord 
Kilcoubry's  (don't  be  surprised,  my  lord  is  but  a  glover),1  when 
the  Duchess  of  Hamilton  (that  fair  who  sacrificed  her  beauty 
to  her  ambition,  and  her  inward  peace  to  a  title  and  gilt  equi- 
page) passed  by  in  her  chariot ;  her  battered  husband,  or  more 
properly  the  guardian  of  her  charms,  sat  by  her  side.  Straight 
envy  began,  in  the  shape  of  no  less  than  three  ladies  who  sat 
with  me,  to  find  faults  in  her  faultless  form.  'For  my  part,' 
says  the  first,  '  I  think  what  I  always  thought,  that  the  Duch- 
ess has  too  much  of  the  red  in  her  complexion.'  '  Madam,  I 
am  not  of  your  opinion,'  says  the  second  ;  '  I  think  her  face  has 
a  palish  cast  too  much  on  the  delicate  order.'  '  And  let  me  tell 
you,'  added  the  third  lady,  whose  mouth  was  puckered  up  to 

i  William  Maclellan,  who  claimed  the  title,  and  whose  son  succeeded  in  establish- 
Ing  the  claim  in  1773.  The  father  is  said  to  have  voted  at  the  election  of  the  six- 
teen Peers  for  Scotland,  and  to  have  sold  gloves  in  the  lobby  at  this  and  other  publie 
assemblages. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  41 

tfae  size  of  an  issue,  '  that  the  Duchess  has  fine  lips,  but  she 
wants  a  mouth.'  At  this  every  lady  drew  up  her  mouth  as  if 
going  to  pronounce  the  letter  P. 

"But  how  ill,  my  Bob,  does  it  become  me  to  ridicule  women 
with  whom  I  have  scarcely  any  correspondence !  There  are, 
'tis  certain,  handsome  women  here  ;  and  'tis  certain  they  have 
handsome  men  to  keep  them  company.  An  ugly  and  poor 
man  is  society  only  for  himself ;  and  such  society  the  world 
lets  me  enjoy  in  great  abundance.  Fortune  has  given  you  cir- 
cumstances, and  nature  a  person  to  look  charming  in  the  eyes 
of  the  fair.  Nor  do  I  envy  my  dear  Bob  such  blessings,  while 
I  may  sit  down  and  laugh  at  the  world  and  at  myself  —  the 
most  ridiculous  object  in  it.  But  you  see  I  am  grown  down- 
right splenetic,  and  perhaps  the- fit  may  continue  till  I  receive 
an  answer  to  this.  I  k*now  you  cannot  send  me  much  news 
from  Ballymahon,  but  such  as  it  is,  send  it  all ;  every  thing  you 
send  will  be  agreeable  to  me. 

"  Has  George  Conway  put  up  a  sign  yet ;  or  John  Binley  left 
off  drinking  drams  ;  or  Tom  Allen  got  a  new  wi'g  ?  But  I  leave 
you  to  your  own  choice  what  to  write.  While  I  live,  know 
you  have  a  true  friend  in  yours,  etc.,  etc., 

"OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

"  P.S.  Give  my  sincere  respects  (not  compliments,  do  you 
mind)  to  your  agreeable  family,  and  give  my  service  to  my 
mother,  if  you  see  her ;  for,  as  you  express  it  in  Ireland,  I  have 

a  sneaking  kindness  for  her  still.     Direct  to-  me, ,  Student 

in  Physic,  in  Edinburgh." 

Nothing  worthy  of  preservation  appeared  from  his  pen  dur- 
ing his  residence  in  Edinburgh ;  and  indeed  his  poetical  powers, 
highly  as  they  had  been  estimated  by  his  friends,  had  not  as 
yet  produced  any  thing  of  superior  merit.  He  made  on  one 
occasion  a  month's  excursion  to  the  Highlands.  "I  set  out  the 
first  day  on  foot,"  says  he,  in  a  letter  to  his  uncle  Contarine, 
"  but  an  ill-natured  corn  I  have  on  my  toe  has  for  the  future 
prevented  that  cheap  mode  of  travelling ;  so  the  second  day  i 
hired  a  horse  about  the  size  of  a  ram,  and  he  walked  away  (trot 
he  could  not)  as  pensive  as  his  master." 

During  his  residence  in  Scotland  his  convivial  talents  gained 
him  at  one  time  attentions  in  a  high  quarter,  which,  however, 
he  had  the  good  sense  to  appreciate  correctly.  "  I  have  spent,''" 
says  he,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "more  than  a  fortnight  every 
second  day  at  the  Duke  of  Hamilton's ;  but  it  seems  they  like 


42  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

me  more  as  a  jester  than  as  a  companion,  so  I  disdained  so  ser- 
vile an  employment  as  unworthy  my  calling  as  a  physician." 
Here  we  again  find  the  origin  of  another  passage  in  his  auto- 
biography, under  the  character  of  the  "Man  in  Black,"  where- 
in that  worthy  figures  as  a  flatterer  to  a  great  man.  "  At 
first,"  says  he,  "I  was  surprised  that  the  situation  of  a  flat- 
terer at  a  great  man's  table  could  be  thought  disagreeable ; 
there  was  no  great  trouble  in  listening  attentively  when  his 
lordship  spoke,  and  laughing  when  he  looked  round  for  ap- 
plause. This,  even  good  manners  might  have  obliged  me  to 
perform.  I  found,  however,  too  soon,  his  lordship  was  a 
greater  dunce  than  myself,  and  from  that  moment  flattery  was 
at  an  end.  I  now  rather  aimed  at  setting  him  right,  than  at 
receiving  his  absurdities  with  submission  :  to  flatter  those  we 
do  not  know  is  an  easy  task ;  but  to  flatter  our  intimate  ac- 
quaintances, all  whose  foibles  are  strongly  in  our  eyes,  is 
drudgery  insupportable.  Every  time  I  now  opened  my  lips 
in  praise,  my  falsehood  went  to  my  conscience ;  his  lordship 
soon  perceived  me  to  be  very  unfit  for  his  service :  I  was 
therefore  discharged ;  my  patron  at  the  same  time  being  gra- 
ciously pleased  to  observe  that  he  believed  I  was  tolerably 
good-natured,  and  had  not  the  least  harm  in  me." 

After  spending  two  winters  at  Edinburgh,  Goldsmith  pre- 
pared to  finish  his  medical  studies  on  the  Continent,  for  which 
his  uncle  Contarine  agreed  to  furnish  the  funds.  "I  intend," 
said  he,  in  a  letter  to  his  uncle,  "  to  visit  Paris,  where  the  great 
Farheim,  Petit,  and  Du  Hamel  de  Monceau  instruct  their  pupils 
in  all  the  branches  of  medicine.  They  speak  French,  and  con- 
sequently I  shall  have  much  the  advantage  of  most  of  my 
countrymen,  as  I  am  perfectly  acquainted  with  that  language, 
and  few  who  leave  Ireland  are  so.  I  shall  spend  the  spring  and 
summer  in  Paris,  and  the  beginning  of  next  winter  go  to  Leyden. 
The  great  Albinus  is  still  alive  there,  and  t'will  be  proper  to  go, 
though  only  to  have  it  said  that  we  have  studied  in  so  famous  a 
university. 

"  As  I  shall  not  have  another  opportunity  of  receiving  money 
from  your  bounty  till  my  return  to  Ireland,  so  I  have  drawn  for 
the  last  sum  that  I  hope  I  shall  ever  trouble  you  for  ;  'tis  £20. 
And  now,  dear  sir,  let  me  here  acknowledge  the  humility  of  the 
station  in  which  you  found  me  ;  let  me  tell  how  I  was  despised 
by  most,  and  hateful  to  myself.  Poverty,  hopeless  poverty, 
was  my  lot,  and  Melancholy  was  beginning  to  make  me  her 
own.  When  you  —  but  I  stop  here,  to  inquire  how  your  health 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  43 

her  late  complaint?  How  does  my  poor  Jack  Goldsmith?  I 
fear  his  disorder  is  of  such  a  nature  as  he  won't  easily  recover. 
I  wish,  my  dear  sir,  you  would  make  me  happy  by  another  letter 
before  I  go  abroad,  for  there  I  shall  hardly  hear  from  you.  .  .  . 
Give  my  —  how  shall  I  express  it  ?  Give  my  earnest  love  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lawder." 

Mrs.  Lawder  was  Jane,  his  early  playmate  —  the  object  of 
his  valentine  —  his  first  poetical  inspiration.  She  had  been  for 
some  time  married. 

Medical  instruction,  it  will  be  perceived,  was  the  ostensible 
motive  for  this  visit  to  the  Continent,  but  the  real  one,  in  all 
probability,  was  his  long-cherished  desire  to  see  foreign  parts. 
This,  however,  he  would  not  acknowledge  even  to  himself,  but 
sought  to  reconcile  his  roving  propensities  with  some  grand 
moral  purpose.  "I  esteem  the  traveller  who  instructs  the 
heart,"  says  he,  in  one  of  his  subsequent  writings,  "  but  despise 
him  who  only  indulges  the  imagination.  A  man  who  leaves 
home  to  mend  himself  and  others  is  a  philosopher ;  but  he  who 
goes  from  country  to  country,  guided  by  the  blind  impulse  of 
curiosity,  is  only  a  vagabond."  He,  of  course,  was  to  travel  as 
a  philosopher,  and  in  truth  his  outfits  for  a  continental  tour 
were  in  character.  "  I  shall  carry  just  £33  to  France,"  said 
he,  "  with  good  store  of  clothes,  shirts,  etc.,  and  that  with 
economy  will  suffice."  He  forgot  to  make  mention  of  his  flute, 
which  it  will  be  found  had  occasionally  to  come  in  play  when 
economy  could  not  replenish  his  puree,  nor  philosophy  find  him 
a  supper.  Thus  slenderly  provided  with  money,  prudence,  or 
experience,  and  almost  as  slightly  guarded  against  "  hard 
knocks  "  as  the  hero  of  La  Mancha,  whose  head-piece  was  half 
iron,  half  pasteboard,  he  made  his  final  sally  forth  upon  the 
world  ;  hoping  all  things  ;  believing  all  things  :  little  anticipat- 
ing the  checkered  ills  in  store  for  him  ;  little  thinking  when  he 
penned  his  valedictory  letter  to  his  good  uncle  Contarine,  that 
he  was  never  to  see  him  more ;  never  to  return  after  all  his 
wandering  to  the  friend  of  his  infancy ;  never  to  revisit  his  early 
and  fondly-remembered  haunts  at  "  sweet  Lissoy  "  and  Bally- 
mahon. 


44  OLIVER   GOLDSM1T3. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE      AGREEABLE      FELLOW-PASSENGERS  —  RISKS      FROM     FRIENDS 

PICKED     UP    BY    THE     WAYSIDE SKETCHES     OF     HOLLAND     AND 

THE    DUTCH SHIFTS    WHILE    A     POOR    STUDENT    AT    LEYDEN 

THE   TULIP    SPECULATION THE    PROVIDENT    FLUTE SOJOURN 

AT    PARIS  —  SKETCH    OF   VOLTAIRE  —  TRAVELLING    SHIFTS    OF    A 
PHILOSOPHIC    VAGABOND. 

His  usual  indiscretion  attended  Goldsmith  at  the  very  outset 
of  his  foreign  enterprise.  He  had  intended  to  take  shipping  at 
Leith  for  Holland  ;  but  on  arriving  at  that  port  he  found  a  ship 
about  to  sail  for  Bordeaux,  with  six  agreeable  passengers, 
whose  acquaintance  he  had  probably  made  at  the  inn.  He  was 
not  a  man  to  resist  a  sudden  impulse  ;  so,  instead  of  embarking 
for  Holland,  he  found  himself  ploughing  the  seas  on  his  way  to 
the  other  side  of  the  Continent.  Scarcely  had  the  ship  been 
two  days  at  sea,  when  she  was  driven  by  stress  of  weather  to 
Newcastle-upon-Tyne.  Here  "of  course"  Goldsmith  and  his 
agreeable  fellow-passengers  found  it  expedient  to  go  on  shore 
and  "  refresh  themselves  after  the  fatigues  of  the  voyage." 
"  Of  course  "  they  frolicked  and  made  merry  until  a  late  hour 
in  the  evening,  when,  in  the  midst  of  their  hilarity,  the  door 
was  burst  open,  and  a  sergeant  and  twelve  grenadiers  entered 
with  fixed  bayonets,  and  took  the  whole  convivial  party  pris- 
oners. 

It  seems  that  the  agreeable  companions  with  whom  our  green- 
horn had  struck  up  such  a  sudden  intimacy  were  Scotchmen  in 
the  French  service,  who  had  been  in  Scotland  enlisting  recruits 
for  the  French  army. 

In  vain  Goldsmith  protested  his  innocence  ;  he  was  marched 
off  with  his  fellow-revellers  to  prison,  whence  he  with  difficulty 
obtained  his  release  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight.  With  his  cus- 
tomary facility,  however,  at  palliating  his  misadventures,  he 
found  every  thing  turn  out  for  the  best.  His  imprisonment 
saved  his  life,  for  during  his  detention  the  ship  proceeded  on 
her  voyage,  but  was  wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the  Garonne,  and 
all  on  board  perished. 

Goldsmith's  second  embarkation  was  for  Holland  direct,  and 
in  nine  days  he  arrived  at  Rotterdam,  whence  he  proceeded, 
without  any  more  deviations,  to  Leyden.  He  gives  a  whimsical 
picture,  in  one  of  his  letters,  of  the  appearance  of  the  Holland- 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  45 

era.  "  The  modern  Dutchman  is  quite  a  different  creature  from 
him  of  former  times :  he  in  every  thing  imitates  a  Frenchman 
but  in  his  easy,  disengaged  air.  He  is  vastly  ceremonious,  and 
is,  perhaps,  exactly  what  a  Frenchman  might  have  been  in  the 
reign  of  Louis  XIV.  Such  are  the  better  bred.  But  the  down- 
right Hollander  is  one  of  the  oddest  figures  in  nature.  Upon  a 
lauk  head  of  hair  he  wears  a  half-cocked  narrow  hat,  laced  with 
black  ribbon  ;  no  coat,  but  seven  waistcoats  and  nine  pair  of 
breeches,  so  that  his  hips  reach  up  almost  to  his  armpits.  This 
well-clothed  vegetable  is  now  fit  to  see  company  or  make  love. 
But  what  a  pleasing  creature  is  the  object  of  his  appetite  !  why, 
she  wears  a  large  fur  cap,  with  a  deal  of  Flanders  lace ;  and 
for  every  pair  of  breeches  he  carries,  she  puts  on  two  petti- 
coats. 

"A  Dutch  lady  burns  nothing  about  her  phlegmatic  admirer 
but  his  tobacco.  You  must  know,  sir,  every  woman  carries  in 
her  hand  a  stove  of  coals,  which,  when  she  sits,  she  snugs 
under  her  petticoats,  and  at  this  chimney  dozing  Strephon  lights 
his  pipe." 

In  the  same  letter  he  contrasts  Scotland  and  Holland. 
"  There  hills  and  rocks  intercept  every  prospect;  here  it  is  all 
a  continued  plain.  There  you  might  see  a  well-dressed  Duchess 
issuing  from  a  dirty  close,  and  here  a  dirty  Dutchman  inhabit- 
ing a  palace.  The  Scotch  may  be  compared  to  a  tulip,  planted 
in  dung ;  but  I  can  never  see  a  Dutchman  in  his  own  house 
but  I  think  of  a  magnificent  Egyptian  temple  dedicated  to 
an  ox." 

The  country  itself  awakened  his  admiration.  "Nothing," 
said  he,  "•  can  equal  its  beauty ;  wherever  I  turn  my  eyes,  fiue 
houses,  elegant  gardens,  statues,  grottoes,  vistas,  present  them- 
selves ;  but  when  you  enter  their  towns  you  are  charmed  beyond 
description.  No  misery  is  to  be  seen  here ;  every  one  is  use- 
fully employed."  And  again,  in  his  noble  description  in  "  The 
Traveller:  " 

"  To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Imboscm'd  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 
And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow; 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amid  the  watery  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore. 
While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  au  amphibious  world  before  him  smile; 


46  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

The  slow  canal,  the  yellow  blossom'd  vale, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign." 

He  remained  about  a  year  at  Leyden,  attending  the  lectures 
of  Gaubius  on  chemistry  and  Albinus  on  anatomy ;  though  his 
studies  are  said  to  have  been  miscellaneous,  and  directed  to 
literature  rather  than  science.  The  thirty-three  pounds  with 
which  he  had  set  out  on  his  travels  were  soon  consumed,  and 
he  was  put  to  many  a  shift  to  meet  his  expenses  until  his  pre- 
carious remittances  should  arrive.  He  had  a  good  friend  on 
these  occasions  in  a  fellow-student  and  countryman,  named 
Ellis,  who  afterward  rose  to  eminence  as  a  physician.  He  used 
frequently  to  loan  small  sums  to  Goldsmith,  which  were  always 
scrupulously  paid.  Ellis  discovered  the  innate  merits  of  the 
poor  awkward  student,  and  used  to  declare  in  after  life  that  it 
was  a  common  remark  in  Leyden,  that  in  all  the  peculiarities  of 
Goldsmith,  an  elevation  of  mind  was  to  be  noted  ;  a  philosophi- 
cal tone  and  manner ;  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman,  and  the 
language  and  information  of  a  scholar." 

Sometimes,  in  his  emergencies,  Goldsmith  undertook  to  teach 
the  English  language.  It  is  true  he  was  ignorant  of  the  Dutch, 
but  he  had  a  smattering  of  the  French,  picked  up  among  the 
Irish  priests  at  Ballymahon.  He  depicts  his  whimsical  embar- 
rassment in  this  respect,  in  his  account  in  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field,  of  the  philosophical  vagabond  who  went  to  Holland  to  teach 
the  natives  English,  without  knowing  a  word  of  their  own  lan- 
guage. Sometimes,  when  sorely  pinched,  and  sometimes,  per- 
haps, when  flush,  he  resorted  to  the  gambling  tables,  which  in 
those  days  abounded  in  Holland.  His  good  friend  Ellis  re- 
peatedly warned  him  against  this  unfortunate  propensity,  but  in 
vain.  It  brought  its  own  cure,  or  rather  its  own  punishment, 
by  stripping  him  of  every  shilling. 

Ellis  once  more  stepped  in  to  his  relief  with  a  true  Irishman's 
generosity,  but  with  more  considerateness  than  generally  char- 
acterizes an  Irishman,  for  he  only  granted  pecuniary  aid  on 
condition  of  his  quitting  the  sphere  of  danger.  Goldsmith 
gladly  consented  to  leave  Holland,  being  anxious  to  visit  other 
parts.  He  intended  to  proceed  to  Paris  and  pursue  his  studies 
there,  and  was  furnished  by  his  friend  with  money  for  the 
journey.  Unluckily,  he  rambled  into  the  garden  of  a  florist 
just  before  quitting  Leyden.  The  tulip  mania  was  still  preva- 
lent in  Holland,  and  some  species  of  that  splendid  flower 
brought  immense  prices.  In  wandering  through  the  garden 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  47 

Goldsmith  recollected  that  his  uncle  Contarine  was  a  tulip 
fancier.  The  thought  suddenly  struck  him  that  here  was  an 
opportunity  of  testifying,  in  a  delicate  manner,  his  sense  of 
that  generous  uncle's  past  kindnesses.  In  an  instant  his  hand 
was  in  his  pocket ;  a  number  of  choice  and  costly  tulip-roots 
were  purchased  and  packed  up  for  Mr.  Contarine ;  and  it  was 
not  until  he  had  paid  for  them  that  he  bethought  himself  that 
he  had  spent  all  the  money  borrowed  for  his  travelling  ex- 
penses. Too  proud,  however,  to  give  up  his  journey,  and  too 
shamefaced  to  make  another  appeal  to  his  friend's  liberality, 
he  determined  to  travel  on  foot,  and  depend  upon  chance  and 
good  luck  for  the  means  of  getting  forward  ;  and  it  is  said  that 
he  actually  set  off  on  a  tour  of  the  Continent,  in  February, 
1755,  with  but  one  spare  shirt,  a  flute,  and  a  single  guinea. 

"Blessed,"  says  one  of  his  biographers,  "  with  a  good  con- 
stitution, an  adventurous  spirit,  and  with  that  thoughtless,  or, 
perhaps,  happy  disposition  which  takes  no  care  for  to-morrow, 
he  continued  his  travels  for  a  long  time  in  spite  of  innumerable 
privations."  In  his  amusing  narrative  of  the  adventures  of  a 
"  Philosophic  Vagabond  "  in  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  we 
find  shadowed  out  the  expedients  he  pursued.  "I  had  some 
knowledge  of  music,  with  a  tolerable  voice ;  I  now  turned 
what  was  once  my  amusement  into  a  present  means  of  sub- 
sistence. I  passed  among  the  harmless  peasants  of  Flanders, 
and  among  such  of  the  French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be  very 
merry,  for  I  ever  found  them  sprightly  in  proportion  to  their 
wants.  Whenever  I  approached  a  peasant's  house  toward 
nightfall,  I  played  one  of  my  merriest  tunes,  and  that  procured 
me  not  only  a  lodging,  but  subsistence  for  the  next  day  ;  but  in 
truth  I  must  own,  whenever  I  attempted  to  entertain  persons  of 
a  higher  rank,  they  always  thought  my  performance  odious,  and 
never  made  me  any  return  for  my  endeavors  to  please  them." 

At  Paris  he  attended  the  chemical  lectures  of  Rouelle,  then 
in  great  vogue,  where  he  says  he  witnessed  as  bright  a  circle  of 
beauty  as  graced  the  court  of  Versailles.  His  love  of  theat- 
ricals, also,  led  him  to  attend  the  performances  of  the  cele- 
brated actress  Mademoiselle  Clairon,  with  which  he  was  greatly 
delighted.  He  seems  to  have  looked  upon  the  state  of  society 
with  the  eye  of  a  philosopher,  but  to  have  read  the  signs  of  the 
times  with  the  prophetic  eye  of  a  poet.  In  his  rambles  about 
the  environs  of  Paris  he  was  struck  with  the  immense  quanti- 
ties of  game  running  about  almost  in  a  tame  state  ;  and  saw  in 
those  costly  and  rigid  preserves  for  the  amusement  and  luxury 
of  the  privileged  few  a  sure  "  badge  of  the  slavery  of  tb» 


48  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

people."  This  slavery  he  predicted  was  drawing  toward  a  close. 
"  When  I  consider  that  these  parliaments,  the  members  of 
which  are  all  created  by  the  court,  and  the  presidents  of  which 
can  only  act  by  immediate  direction,  presume  even  to  mention 
privileges  and  freedom,  who  till  of  late  received  directions  from 
the  throne  with  implicit  humility ;  when  this  is  considered,  I 
cannot  help  fancying  that  the  genius  of  Freedom  has  entered 
that  kingdom  in  disguise.  If  they  have  but  three  weak  mon- 
archs  more  successively  on  the  throne,  the  mask  will  be  laid 
aside,  and  the  country  will  certainly  once  more  be  free." 
Events  have  testified  to  the  sage  forecast  of  the  poet. 

During  a  brief  sojourn  in  Paris  he  appears  to  have  gained 
access  to  valuable  society,  and  to  have  had  the  honor  and 
pleasure  of  making  the  acquaintance  of  Voltaire ;  of  whom,  in 
after  years,  he  wrote  a  memoir.  "  As  a  companion,"  says  he, 
"  no  man  ever  exceeded  him  when  he  pleased  to  lead  the  con- 
versation ;  which,  however,  was  not  always  the  case.  In  com- 
pany which  he  either  disliked  or  despised,  few  could  be  more 
reserved  than  he ;  but  when  he  was  warmed  in  discourse,  and 
got  over  a  hesitating  manner,  which  sometimes  he  was  subject 
to,  it  was  rapture  to  hear  him.  His  meagre  visage  seemed 
insensibly  to  gather  beauty :  every  muscle  in  it  had  meaning, 
and  his  eye  beamed  with  unusual  brightness.  The  person  who 
writes  this  memoir,"  continues  he,  "  remembers  to  have  seen 
him  in  a  select  company  of  wits  of  both  sexes  at  Paris,  when 
the  subject  happened  to  turn  upon  English  taste  and  learning. 
Fontenelle  (then  nearly  a  hundred  years  old) ,  who  was  of  the 
party,  and  who  being  unacquainted  with  the  language  or  au- 
thors of  the  country  he  undertook  to  condemn,  with  a  spirit 
truly  vulgar  began  to  revile  both.  Diderot,  who  liked  the 
English,  and  knew  something  of  their  literary  pretensions, 
attempted  to  vindicate  their  poetry  and  learning,  but  with 
unequal  abilities.  The  company  quickly  perceived  that  Fonte- 
nelle was  superior  in  the  dispute,  and  were  surprised  at  the 
silence  which  Voltaire  had  preserved  all  the  former  part  of 
the  night,  particularly  as  the  conversation  happened  to  turn  upon 
one  of  his  favorite  topics.  Fontenelle  continued  his  triumph 
until  about  twelve  o'clock,  when  Voltaire  appeared  at  last 
roused  from  his  reverie.  His  whole  frame  seemed  animated. 
He  began  his  defence  with  the  utmost  defiance  mixed  with 
spirit,  and  now  and  then  let  fall  the  finest  strokes  of  raillery 
upon  his  antagonist ;  and  his  harangue  lasted  till  three  in  the 
morning.  I  must  confess  that,  whether  from  national  par- 
tiality or  from  the  elegant  sensibility  of  his  manner,  I  never 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  49 

was  so  charmed,  nor  did  I  ever  remember  so  absolute  a  victory 
as  he  gained  in  this  dispute."  Goldsmith's  ramblings  took  him 
into  Germany  and  Switzerland,  from  which  last  mentioned 
country  he  sent  to  his  brother  in  Ireland  the  first  brief  sketch, 
afterward  amplified  into  his  poem  of  the  "  Traveller." 

At  Geneva  he  became  travelling  tutor  to  a  mongrel  young 
gentleman,  son  of  a  London  pawnbroker,  who  had  been  sud- 
denly elevated  into  fortune  and  absurdity  by  the  death  of  an 
uncle.  The  youth,  before  setting  up  for  a  gentleman,  had  been 
an  attorney's  apprentice,  and  was  an  arrant  pettifogger  in 
money  matters.  Never  were  two  beings  more  illy  assorted 
than  he  and  Goldsmith.  We  may  form  an  idea  of  the  tutor 
and  the  pupil  from  the  following  extract  from  the  narrative  of 
the  "  Philosophic  Vagabond." 

"  I  was  to  be  the  young  gentleman's  governor,  but  with  a 
proviso  that  he  should  always  be  permitted  to  govern  himself. 
My  pupil,  in  fact,  understood  the  art  of  guiding  in  money  con- 
cerns much  better  than  I.  He  was  heir  to  a  fortune  of  about 
two  hundred  thousand  pounds,  left  him  by  an  uncle  in  the  West 
Indies ;  and  his  guardians,  to  qualify  him  for  the  management 
of  it,  had  bound  him  apprentice  to  an  attorney.  Thus  avarice 
was  his  prevailing  passion ;  all  his  questions  on  the  road  were 
how  money  might  be  saved  —  which  was  the  least  expensive 
course  of  travel  —  whether  any  thing  could  be  bought  that  would 
turn  to  account  when  disposed  of  again  in  London.  Such 
curiosities  on  the  way  as  could  be  seen  for  nothing  he  was  ready 
enough  to  look  at ;  but  if  the  sight  of  them  was  to  be  paid  for, 
he  usually  asserted  that  he  had  been  told  that  they  were  not 
worth  seeing.  He  never  paid  a  bill  that  he  would  not  observe 
how  amazingly  expensive  travelling  was ;  and  all  this  though 
not  yet  twenty -one." 

In  this  sketch  Goldsmith  undoubtedly  shadows  forth  his  an- 
noyances as  travelling  tutor  to  this  concrete  young  gentleman, 
compounded  of  the  pawnbroker,  the  pettifogger,  and  the  West 
Indian  heir,  with  an  overlaying  of  the  city  miser.  They  had 
continual  difficulties  on  all  points  of  expense  until  they  reached 
Marseilles,  where  both  were  glad  to  separate. 

Once  more  on  foot,  but  freed  from  the  irksome  duties  of 
"  bear  leader,"  and  with  some  of  his  pay,  as  tutor,  in  his 
pocket,  Goldsmith  continued  his  half-vagrant  peregrinations 
through  part  of  France  and  Piedmont,  and  some  of  the  Italian 
States.  He  had  acquired,  as  has  been  shown,  a  habit  of  shift- 
ing along  and  living  by  expedients,  and  a  new  one  presented 
itself  in  Italy.  "  My  skill  in  music,"  says  he,  in  the  Philosophic 


50  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Vagabond,  "  could  avail  me  nothing  in  a  country  where  every 
peasant  was  a  better  musician  than  I ;  but  by  this  time  I  had 
acquired  another  talent,  which  answered  my  purpose  as  well, 
and  this  was  a  skill  in  disputation.  In  all  the  foreign  univer- 
sities and  convents  there  are,  upon  certain  days,  philosophical 
theses  maintained  against  every  adventitious  disputant ;  for 
which,  if  the  champion  opposes  with  any  dexterity,  he  can 
claim  a  gratuity  in  money,  a  dinner,  and  a  bed  for  one  night." 
Though  a  poor  wandering  scholar,  his  reception  in  these 
learned  piles  was  as  free  from  humiliation  as  in  the  cottages  of 
the  peasantry.  "  With  the  members  of  these  establishments," 
said  he,  "I  could  converse  on  topics  of  literature,  and  then  I 
always  forgot  the  meanness  of  my  circumstances." 

At  Padua,  where  he  remained  some  months,  he  is  said  to 
have  taken  his  medical  degree.  It  is  probable  he  was  brought 
to  a  pause  in  this  city  by  the  illness  of  his  uncle  Contarine,  who 
had  hitherto  assisted  him  in  his  wanderings  by  occasional, 
though,  of  course,  slender  remittances.  Deprived  of  this  source 
of  supplies,  he  wrote  to  his  friends  in  Ireland,  and  especially  to 
his  brother-in-law,  Hodson,  describing  his  destitute  situation. 
His  letters  brought  him  neither  money  nor  reply.  It  appears 
from  subsequent  correspondence  that  his  brother-in-law  actually 
exerted  himself  to  raise  a  subscription  for  his  assistance  among 
his  relatives,  friends,  and  acquaintance,  but  without  success. 
Their  faith  and  hope  in  him  were  most  probably  at  an  end  ;  as 
yet  he  had  disappointed  them  at  every  point,  he  had  given  none 
of  the  anticipated  proofs  of  talent,  and  they  were  too  poor  to 
support  what  they  may  have  considered  the  wandering  propen- 
sities of  a  heedless  spendthrift. 

Thus  left  to  his  own  precarious  resources,  Goldsmith  gave  up 
all  farther  wandering  in  Italy,  without  visiting  the  south,  though 
Borne  and  Naples  must  have  held  out  powerful  attractions  to 
one  of  his  poetical  cast.  Once  more  resuming  his  pilgrim  staff, 
he  turned  his  face  toward  England,  "  walking  along  from  city 
to  city,  examining  mankind  more  nearly,  and  seeing  both  sides 
of  the  picture."  In  traversing  France  his  flute  —  his  magic 
flute  !  —  was  once  more  in  requisition,  as  we  may  conclude,  by 
the  following  passage  in  his  Traveller : 

"  Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please, 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir 
With  tuneless  pipe  beside  the  murmuring  Loire! 
.  Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 

And  freshened  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew; 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  51 

And  haply  though  my  harsh  note  falt'ring  still, 
But  mocked  all  tune,  and  marr'd  the  dancer's  skill; 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages  :  Dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze, 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill'd  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisk'd  beneath  the  burden  of  three-score." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LANDING   IN    ENGLAND  —  SHIFTS    OF    A    MAN   WITHOUT    MONET 

THE    PESTLE   AND  MORTAR THEATRICALS  IN  A  BARN  —  LAUNCH 

UPON     LONDON A     CITY      NIGHT      SCENE STRUGGLES      WITH 

PENURY MISERIES    OF    A    TUTOR A    DOCTOR   IN    THE     SUBURB 

POOR    PRACTICE     AND     SECOND-HAND     FINERY A     TRAGEDY 

IN    EMBRYO  —  PROJECT   OF   THE   WRITTEN    MOUNTAINS. 

AFTER  two  years  spent  in  roving  about  the  Continent,  "  pur- 
suing novelty,"  as  he  said,  "  and  losing  content,"  Goldsmith 
landed  at  Dover  early  in  1756.  He  appears  to  have  had  no 
definite  plan  of  action.  The  death  of  his  uncle  Contarine,  and 
the  neglect  of  his  relatives  and  friends  to  reply  to  his  letters, 
seem  to  have  produced  in  him  a  temporary  feeling  of  loneli- 
ness and  destitution,  and  his  only  thought  was  to  get  to  Lon- 
don and  throw  himself  upon  the  world.  But  how  was  he  to 
get  there?  His  purse  was  empty.  England  was  to  him  as 
completely  a  foreign  land  as  any  part  of  the  Continent,  and 
where  on  earth  is  a  penniless  stranger  more  destitute?  His 
flute  and  his  philosophy  were  no  longer  of  any  avail ;  the  Eng- 
lish boors  cared  nothing  for  music ;  there  were  no  convents ; 
and  as  to  the  learned  and  the  clergy,  not  one  of  them  would 
give  a  vagrant  scholar  a  supper  and  night's  lodging  for  the  best 
thesis  that  ever  was  argued.  "  You  may  easily  imagine," 
says  he,  in  a  subsequent  letter  to  his  brother-in-law,  "  what 
difficulties  I  had  to  encounter,  left  as  I  was  without  friends, 
recommendations,  money,  or  impudence,  and  that  in  a  country 
where  being  born  an  Irishman  was  sufficient  to  keep  me  un- 
employed. Many,  in  such  circumstances,  would  have  had 
recourse  to  the  friar's  cord  or  the  suicide's  halter.  But,  with 
all  my  follies,  I  had  principle  to  resist  the  one,  and  resolution 
to  combat  the  other." 

He  applied  at  one  place,  we  are  told,  for  employment  in  the 


52  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

shop  of  a  country  apothecary ;  but  all  his  medical  science 
gathered  in  foreign  universities  could  not  gain  him  the  man- 
agement of  a  pestle  and  mortar.  He  even  resorted,  it  is  said, 
to  the  stage  as  a  temporary  expedient,  and  figured  in  low  com- 
edy at  a  country  town  in  Kent.  This  accords  with  his  last 
shift  of  the  Philosophic  Vagabond,  and  with  the  knowledge  of 
country  theatricals  displayed  in  his  "Adventures  of  a  Stroll- 
ing Player,"  or  maybe  a  story  suggested  by  them.  All  this 
part  of  Jtis  career,  however,  in  which  he  must  have  trod  the 
lowest  paths  of  humility,  are  only  to  be  conjectured  from 
vague  traditions,  or  scraps  of  autobiography  gleaned  from  his 
miscellaneous  writings. 

At  length  we  find  him  launched  on  the  great  metropolis,  or 
rather  drifting  about  its  streets,  at  night,  in  the  gloomy  month 
of  February,  with  but  a  few  half-pence  in  his  pocket.  The 
deserts  of  Arabia  are  not  more  dreary  and  inhospitable  than 
the  streets  of  London  at  such  a  time,  and  to  a  stranger  in  such 
a  plight.  Do  we  want  a  picture  as  an  illustration  ?  We  have 
it  in  his  own  words,  and  furnished,  doubtless,  from  his  own 
experience. 

"The  clock  has  just  struck  two;  what  a  gloom  hangs  all 
around !  no  sound  is  heard  but  of  the  chiming  clock,  or  the  dis- 
tant watchdog.  How  few  appear  in  those  streets,  which  but 
some  few  hours  ago  were  crowded !  But  who  are  those  who 
make  the  streets  their  couch,  and  find  a  short  repose  from 
wretchedness  at  the  doors  of  the  opulent?  They  are  strangers, 
wanderers,  and  orphans,  whose  circumstances  are  too  humble  to 
expect  redress,  and  whose  distresses  are  too  great  even  for  pity. 
Some  are  without  the  covering  even  of  rags,  and  others  emaci- 
ated with  disease  ;  the  world  has  disclaimed  them  ;  society  turns 
its  back  upon  their  distress,  and  has  given  them  up  to  naked- 
ness and  hunger.  These  poor  shivering  females  have  once  seen 
happier  days,  and  been  flattered  into  beauty.  They  are  now 
turned  out  to  meet  the  severity  of  winter.  Perhaps  now,  lying 
at  the  doors  of  their  betrayers,  they  sue  to  wretches  whose 
hearts  are  insensible,  or  debauchees  who  may  curse,  but  will  not 
relieve  them. 

"  Why,  why  was  I  born  a  man,  and  yet  see  the  sufferings  of 
wretches  I  cannot  relieve  !  Poor  houseless  creatures  !  The  world 
will  give  you  reproaches,  but  will  not  give  you  relief." 

Poor  houseless  Goldsmith  !  we  may  here  ejaculate  —  to  what 
shifts  he  must  have  been  driven  to  find  shelter  and  sustenance 
for  himself  in  this  his  first  venture  into  London  !  Many  years 
afterward,  in  the  days  of  his  social  elevation,  he  startled  a  polite 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  53 

circle  at  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds' s  by  humorously  dating  an  anec- 
dote about  the  time  he  "  lived  among  the  beggars  of  Axe  Lane." 
Such  may  have  been  the  desolate  quarters  with  which  he  was 
fain  to  content  himself  when  thus  adrift  upon  the  town,  with  but 
a  few  half-pence  in  his  pocket. 

The  first  authentic  trace  we  have  of  him  in  this  new  part  of 
his  career,  is  filling  the  situation  of  an  usher  to  a  school,  and 
even  this  employ  he  obtained  with  some  difficulty,  after  a  ref- 
erence for  a  character  to  his  friends  in  the  University  of  Dublin. 
In  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  he  makes  George  Primrose  undergo 
a  whimsical  catechism  concerning  the  requisites  for  an  usher. 
"  Have  you  been  bred  apprentice  to  the  business?"  "No." 
"  Then  you  won't  do  for  a  school.  Can  you  dress  the  boys' 
hair?  "  "  No."  "  Then  you  won't  do  for  a  school.  Can  you 
lie  three  in  a  bed?  "  "  No."  "  Then  you  will  never  do  for  a 
school.  Have  you  a  good  stomach?"  "Yes."  "Then  you 
will  by  no  means  do  for  a  school.  I  have  been  an  usher  in  a 
boarding-school  myself,  and  may  I  die  of  an  anodyne  necklace, 
but  I  had  rather  be  under-turnkey  at  Newgate.  I  was  up  early 
and  late  ;  I  was  browbeat  by  the  master,  hated  for  my  ugly  face 
by  the  mistress,  worried  by  the  boys." 

Goldsmith  remained  but  a  short  time  in  this  situation,  and  to 
the  mortifications  experienced  there,  we  doubtless  owe  the 
picturings  given  in  his  writings  of  the  hardships  of  an  usher's 
life.  "  He  is  generally,"  says  he,  "the  laughing-stock  of  the 
school.  Every  trick  is  played  upon  him  ;  the  oddity  of  his  man- 
ner, his  dress,  or  his  language,  is  a  fund  of  eternal  ridicule ;  the 
master  himself  now  and  then  cannot  avoid  joining  in  the  laugh ; 
and  the  poor  wretch,  eternally  resenting  this  ill  usage,  lives  in 
a  state  of  war  with  all  the  family."  —  "  He  is  obliged,  perhaps, 
to  sleep  in  the  same  bed  with  the  French  teacher,  who  disturbs 
him  for  an  hour  every  night  in  papering  and  filleting  his  hair, 
and  stinks  worse  than  a  carrion  with  his  rancid  pomatums,  when 
he  lays  his  head  beside  him  on  the  bolster." 

His  next  shift  was  as  assistant  in  the  laboratory  of  a  chemist 
near  Fish  Street  Hill.  After  remaining  here  a  few  months,  he 
heard  that  Dr.  Sleigh,  who  had  been  his  friend  and  fellow- 
student  at  Edinburgh,  was  in  London.  Eager  to  meet  with  a 
friendly  face  in  this  land  of  strangers,  he  immediately  called  on 
him  ;  "  but  though  it  was  Sunday,  and  it  is  to  be  supposed  I  was 
in  my  best  clothes,  Sleigh  scarcely  knew  me  —  such  is  the  tax 
the  unfortunate  pay  to  poverty.  However,  when  he  did  recol- 
lect me,  I  found  his  heart  as  warm  as  ever,  and  he  shared  his 
purse  and  friendship  with  me  during  his  continuance  in  London." 


54  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Through  the  advice  and  assistance  of  Dr.  Sleigh,  he  now  com- 
menced the  practice  of  medicine,  but  in  a  small  way,  in  Bank- 
side,  Southwark,  and  chiefly  among  the  poor ;  for  he  wanted  the 
figure,  address,  polish,  and  management,  to  succeed  among  the 
rich.  His  old  schoolmate  and  college  companion,  Beatty,  who 
used  to  aid  him  with  his  purse  at  the  university,  met  him  about 
this  time,  decked  out  in  the  tarnished  finery  of  a  second-hand 
suit  of  green  and  gold,  with  a  shirt  and  neckcloth  of  a  fort- 
night's wear. 

Poor  Goldsmith  endeavored  to  assume  a  prosperous  air  in  the 
eyes  of  his  early  associate.  "  He  was  practising  physic,"  he 
said,  "and  doing  very  well!"  At  this  moment  poverty  was 
pinching  him  to  the  bone  in  spite  of  his  practice  and  his  dirty 
finery.  His  fees  were  necessarily  small,  and  ill  paid,  and  he 
was  fain  to  seek  some  precarious  assistance  from  his  pen.  Here 
his  quondam  fellow-student,  Dr.  Sleigh,  was  again  of  service, 
introducing  him  to  some  of  the  booksellers,  who  gave  him  occa- 
sional, though  starveling,  employment.  According  to  tradition, 
however,  his  most  efficient  patron  just  now  was  a  journeyman 
printer,  one  of  his  poor  patients  of  Bankside,  who  had  formed 
a  good  opinion  of  his  talents,  and  perceived  his  poverty  and  his 
literary  shifts.  The  printer  was  in  the  employ  of  Mr.  Samuel 
Richardson,  the  author  of  Pamela,  Clarissa,  and  Sir  Charles 
Grandison ;  who  combined  the  novelist  and  the  publisher,  and 
was  in  flourishing  circumstances.  Through  the  journeyman's 
intervention  Goldsmith  is  said  to  have  become  acquainted  with 
Richardson,  who  employed  him  as  reader  and  corrector  of  the 
press,  at  his  printing  establishment  at  Salisbury  Court ;  an  oc- 
cupation which  he  alternated  with  his  medical  duties. 

Being  admitted  occasionally  to  Richardson's  parlor,  he  began 
to  form  literary  acquaintances,  among  whom  the  most  important 
was  Dr.  Young,  the  author  of  Night  Thoughts,  a  poem  in  the 
height  of  fashion.  It  is  not  probable,  however,  that  much  fa- 
miliarity took  place  at  the  time  between  the  literary  lion  of  the 
day  and  the  poor  JEsculapius  of  Bankside,  the  humble  corrector 
of  the  press.  Still  the  communion  with  literary  men  had  its 
effect  to  set  his  imagination  teeming.  Dr.  Farr,  one  of  his 
Edinburgh  fellow-students,  who  was  at  London  about  this  time, 
attending  the  hospitals  and  lectures,  gives  us  an  amusing  account 
of  Goldsmith  in  his  literary  character. 

"  Early  in  January  he  called  upon  me  one  morning  before  I 
was  up,  and,  on  my  entering  the  room,  I  recognized  my  old 
acquaintance,  dressed  in  a  rusty,  full-trimmed  black  suit,  with  his 
pockets  full  of  papers,  which  instantly  reminded  me  of  the  poet 


SAMUEL    RICHARDSON. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  56 

in  Garrick's  farce  of  Lethe.  After  we  had  finished  our  break- 
fast he  drew  from  his  pocket  part  of  a  tragedy,  which  he  said 
he  had  brought  for  my  correction.  In  vain  I  pleaded  inability, 
when  he  began  to  read ;  and  every  part  on  which  I  expressed 
a  doubt  as  to  the  propriety  was  immediately  blotted  out.  I 
then  most  earnestly  pressed  him  not  to  trust  to  my  judgment, 
but  to  take  the  opinion  of  persons  better  qualified  to  decide  on 
dramatic  compositions.  He  now  told  me  he  had  submitted  his 
productions,  so  far  as  he  had  written,  to  Mr.  Richardson,  the 
author  of  Clarissa,  on  which  I  peremptorily  declined  offering 
another  criticism  on  the  performance." 

From  the  graphic  description  given  of  him  by  Dr.  Farr,  it 
will  be  perceived  that  the  tarnished  finery  of  green  and  gold  had 
been  succeeded  by  a  professional  suit  of  black,  to  which,  we  are 
told,  were  added  the  wig  and  cane  indispensable  to  medical  doc- 
tors in  those  days.  The  coat  was  a  second-hand  one,  of  rusty 
velvet,  with  a  patch  on  the  left  breast,  which  he  adroitly  cov- 
ered with  his  three-cornered  hat  during  his  medical  visits  ;  and 
we  have  an  amusing  anecdote  of  his  contest  of  courtesy  with  a 
patient  who  persisted  in  endeavoring  to  relieve  him  from  the 
hat,  which  only  made  him  press  it  more  devoutly  to  his  heart. 

Nothing  further  has  ever  been  heard  of  the  tragedy  mentioned 
by  Dr.  Farr ;  it  was  probably  never  completed.  The  same 
gentleman  speaks  of  a  strange  Quixotic  scheme  which  Gold- 
smith had  in  contemplation  at  the  time,  "  of  going  to  decipher 
the  inscriptions  on  the  written  mountains,  though  he  was  alto- 
gether ignorant  of  Arabic,  or  the  language  in  which  they  might 
be  supposed  to  be  written.  "  The  salary  of  three  hundred 
pounds,"  adds  Dr.  Farr,  "  which  had  been  left  for  the  purpose, 
was  the  temptation."  This  was  probably  one  of  many  dreamy 
projects  with  which  his  fervid  brain  was  apt  to  teem.  On  such 
subjects  he  was  prone  to  talk  vaguely  and  magnificently,  but 
inconsiderately,  from  a  kindled  imagination  rather  than  a  well- 
instructed  judgment.  He  had  always  a  great  notion  of  expedi- 
tions to  the  East,  and  wonders  to  be  seen  and  effected  in  the 
Oriental  countries. 


56  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LIFE    OF    A    PEDAGOGUE  —  KINDNESS    TO    SCHOOLBOYS PERTNESS 

IN    RETURN EXPENSIVE    CHARITIES THE    GRIFFITHS  AND  THE 

"  MONTHLY  REVIEW  " TOILS  OF  A  LITERARY  HACK  —  RUPTURE 

WITH    THE    GRIFFITHS. 

AMONG  the  most  cordial  of  Goldsmith's  intimates  in  London 
during  this  time  of  precarious  struggle  were  certain  of  his 
former  fellow-students  in  Edinburgh.  One  of  these  was  the 
son  of  a  Doctor  Milner,  a  dissenting  minister,  who  kept  a 
classical  school  of  eminence  at  Peckham,  in  Surrey.  Young 
Milner  had  a  favorable  opinion  of  Goldsmith's  abilities  and 
attainments,  and  cherished  for  him  that  good-will  which  his 
genial  nature  seems  ever  to  have  inspired  among  his  school 
and  college  associates.  His  father  falling  ill,  the  young  man 
negotiated  with  Goldsmith  to  take  temporary  charge  of  the 
school.  The  latter  readily  consented ;  for  he  was  discouraged 
by  the  slow  growth  of  medical  reputation  and  practice,  and  as 
yet  had  no  confidence  in  the  coy  smiles  of  the  muse.  Laying 
by  his  wig  and  cane,  therefore,  and  once  more  wielding  the 
ferule,  he  resumed  the  character  of  the  pedagogue,  and  for 
some  time  reigned  as  vicegerent  over  the  academy  at  Peckham. 
He  appears  to  have  been  well  treated  by  both  Dr.  Milner  and 
his  wife,  and  became  a  favorite  with  the  scholars  from  his 
easy,  indulgent  good  nature.  He  mingled  in  their  sports,  told 
them  droll  stories,  played  on  the  flute  for  their  amusement, 
and  spent  his  money  in  treating  them  to  sweetmeats  and  other 
schoolboy  dainties.  His  familiarity  was  sometimes  carried  too 
far ;  he  indulged  in  boyish  pranks  and  practical  jokes,  and 
drew  upon  himself  retorts  in  kind,  which,  however,  he  bore 
with  great  good  humor.  Once,  indeed,  he  was  touched  to  the 
quick  by  a  piece  of  schoolboy  pertness.  After  playing  on  the 
flute,  he  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  music,  as  delightful  in  itself, 
and  as  a  valuable  accomplishment  for  a  gentleman,  whereupon 
a  youngster,  with  a  glance  at  his  ungainly  person,  wished  to 
know  if  he  considered  himself  a  gentleman.  Poor  Goldsmith, 
feelingly  alive  to  the  awkwardness  of  his  appearance  and  the 
humility  of  his  situation,  winced  at  this  unthinking  sneer,  which 
long  rankled  in  his  mind. 

As  usual,  while  in  Dr.  Milner's  employ,  his  benevolent  feel- 
ings were  a  heavy  tax  upon  his  purse,  for  he  never  could  resist 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  57 

a  tale  of  distress,  and  was  apt  to  be  fleeced  by  every  sturdy 
beggar;  so  that,  between  his  charity  and  his  munificence,  he 
was  generally  in  advance  of  his  slender  salary.  "You  had 
better,  Mr.  Goldsmith,  let  me  take  care  of  your  money,"  said 
Mrs.  Milner  one  day,  "  as  I  do  for  some  of  the  young  gentle- 
men."—  "In  truth,  madam,  there  is  equal  need!"  was  the 
good-humored  reply. 

Dr.  Milner  was  a  man  of  some  literary  pretensions,  and  wrote 
occasionally  for  the  Monthly  Review,  of  which  a  bookseller,  by 
the  name  of  Griffiths,  was  proprietor.  This  work  was  an 
advocate  for  Whig  principles,  and  had  been  in  prosperous 
existence  for  nearly  eight  years.  Of  late,  however,  periodicals 
had  'multiplied  exceedingly,  and  a  formidable  Tory  rival  had 
started  up  in  the  Critical  Review,  published  by  Archibald  Ham- 
ilton, a  bookseller,  and  aided  by  the  powerful  and  popular  pen 
of  Dr.  Smollett.  Griffiths  was  obliged  to  recruit  his  forces. 
While  so  doing  he  met  Goldsmith,  a  humble  occupant  of  a  seat 
at  Dr.  Milner's  table,  and  was  struck  with  remarks  on  men  and 
books,  which  fell  from  him  in  the  course  of  conversation.  He 
took  occasion  to  sound  him  privately  as  to  his  inclination  and 
capacity  as  a  reviewer,  and  was  furnished  by  him  with  speci- 
mens of  his  literary  and  critical  talents.  They  proved  satis- 
factory. The  consequence  was  that  Goldsmith  once  more 
changed  his  mode  of  life,  and  in  April,  1757,  became  a  contribu- 
tor to  the  Monthly  Review,  at  a  small  fixed  salary,  with  board 
and  lodging,  and  accordingly  took  up  his  abode  with  Mr. 
Griffiths,  at  the  sign  of  the  Dunciad,  Paternoster  Row.  As 
usual  we  trace  this  phase  of  his  fortunes  in  his  semi-fictitious 
writings ;  his  sudden  transmutation  of  the  pedagogue  into  the 
author  being  humorously  set  forth  in  the  case  of  "  George  Prim- 
rose," in  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield."  "  Come,"  says  George's 
adviser,  "  1  see  you  are  a  lad  of  spirit  and  some  learning ; 
what  do  you  think  of  commencing  author  like  me  ?  You  have 
read  in  books,  no  doubt,  of  men  of  genius  starving  at  the 
trade ;  at  present  I'll  show  you  forty  very  dull  fellows  about 
town  that  live  by  it  in  opulence.  All  honest,  jog-trot  men, 
who  go  on  smoothly  and  dully,  and  write  history  and  politics, 
and  are  praised  :  men,  sir,  who,  had  they  been  bred  cobblers, 
would  all  their  lives  only  have  mended  shoes,  but  never  made 
them."  "Finding"  (says  George)  "  that  there  was  no  great 
degree  of  gentility  affixed  to  the  character  of  an  usher,  I  re- 
solved to  accept  his  proposal ;  and  having  the  highest  respect 
for  literature,  hailed  the  antiqua  mater  of  Grub  Street  with 
reverence.  I  thought  it  my  glory  to  pursue  a  track  which 


58  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Dryden  and  Otway  trod  before  me."  Alas,  Dryden  struggled 
with  indigence  all  his  days  ;  and  Otway,  it  is  said,  fell  a  vic- 
tim to  famine  in  his  thirty-fifth  year,  being  strangled  by  a  roll 
of  bread,  which  he  devoured  with  the  voracity  of  a  starving 
man. 

In  Goldsmith's  experience  the  track  soon  proved  a  thorny 
one.  Griffiths  was  a  hard  business  man,  of  shrewd,  worldly 
good  sense,  but  little  refinement  or  cultivation.  He  meddled, 
or  rather  muddled  with  literature,  too,  in  a  business  way, 
altering  and  modifying  occasionally  the  writings  of  his  con- 
tributors, and  in  this  he  was  aided  by  his  wife,  who,  according 
to  Smollett,  was  "an  antiquated  female  critic  and  a  dabbler  in 
the  Review."  Such  was  the  literary  vassalage  to  which  Gold- 
smith had  unwarily  subjected  himself.  A  diurnal  drudgery 
was  imposed  on  him,  irksome  to  his  indolent  habits,  and  at- 
tended by  circumstances  humiliating  to  his  pride.  He  had  to 
write  daily  from  nine  o'clock  until  two,  and  often  throughout 
the  day ;  whether  in  the  vein  or  not,  and  on  subjects  dictated 
by  his  taskmaster,  however  foreign  to  his  taste ;  in  a  word,  he 
was  treated  as  a  mere  literary  hack.  But  this  was  not  the 
worst ;  it  was  the  critical  supervision  of  Griffiths  and  his  wife 
which  grieved  him:  the  "illiterate,  bookselling  Griffiths,"  as 
Smollett  called  them,  "  who  presumed  to  revise,  alter,  and 
amend  the  articles  contributed  to  their  Review.  Thank 
heaven,"  crowed  Smollett,  "the  Critical  Review  is  not  written 
under  the  restraint  of  a  bookseller  and  his  wife.  Its  principal 
writers  are  independent  of  each  other,  unconnected  with  book- 
sellers, and  unawed  by  old  women  !  " 

This  literary  vassalage,  however,  did  not  last  long.  The 
bookseller  became  more  and  more  exacting.  He  accused  his 
hack  writer  of  idleness ;  of  abandoning  his  writing-desk  and 
literary  workshop  at  an  early  hour  of  the  day  ;  and  of  assuming 
a  tone  and  manner  above  his  situation.  Goldsmith,  in  return, 
charged  him  with  impertinence ;  his  wife  with  meanness  and 
parsimony  in  her  household  treatment  of  him,  and  both  of 
literary  meddling  and  marring.  The  engagement  was  broken 
off  at  the  end  of  five  months,  by  mutual  consent,  and  without 
any  violent  rupture,  as  it  will  be  found  they  afterward  had 
occasional  dealings  with  each  other. 

Though  Goldsmith  was  now  nearly  thirty  years  of  age,  he 
had  produced  nothing  to  give  him  a  decided  reputation.  He 
was  as  yet  a  mere  writer  for  bread.  The  articles  he  had  con- 
tributed to  the  Review  were  anonymous,  and  were  never  avowed 
by  him.  They  have  since  been,  for  the  most  part,  ascertained ; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  59 

and  though  thrown  off  hastily,  often  treating  on  subjects  of  tem- 
porary interest,  and  marred  by  the  Griffiths  interpolations,  they 
are  still  characterized  by  his  sound,  easy  good  sense,  and  the 
genial  graces  of  his  style.  Johnson  observed  that  Goldsmith's 
genius  flowered  late  ;  he  should  have  said  it  flowered  early,  but 
was  late  in  bringing  its  fruit  to  maturity. 


CHAPTER 

NEWBERT,  OF  PICTURE-BOOK  MEMORY  —  HOW  TO  KEEP  UP  AP- 
PEARANCES —  MISERIES  OF  AUTHORSHIP  —  A  POOR  RELATION 
LETTER  TO  HODSON. 

BEING  now  known  in  the  publishing  world,  Goldsmith  began 
to  find  casual  employment  in  various  quarters ;  among  others 
he  wrote  occasionally  for  the  Literary  Magazine,  a  production 
set  on  foot  by  Mr.  John  Newbery,  bookseller,  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard,  renowned  in  nursery  literature  throughout  the 
latter  half  of  the  last  century  for  his  picture-books  for  children. 
Newbery  was  a  worthy,  intelligent,  kind-hearted  man,  and  a 
seasonable  though  cautious  friend  to  authors,  relieving  them 
with  small  loans  when  in  pecuniary  difficulties,  though  always 
taking  care  to  be  well  repaid  by  the  labor  of  their  pens.  Gold- 
smith introduces  him  in  a  humorous  yet  friendly  manner  in  his 
novel  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  "This  person  was  no  other 
than  the  philanthropic  bookseller  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  who 
has  written  so  many  little  books  for  children ;  he  called  him- 
self their  friend ;  but  he  was  the  friend  of  all  mankind.  He 
was  no  sooner  alighted  but  he  was  in  haste  to  be  gone ;  for  he 
was  ever  on  business  of  importance,  and  was  at  that  time 
actually  compiling  materials  for  the  history  of  one  Mr.  Thomas 
Trip.  I  immediately  recollected  this  good-natured  man's  red- 
pimpled  face." 

Besides  his  literary  job  work,  Goldsmith  also  resumed  his 
medical  practice,  but  with  very  trifling  success.  The  scanti- 
ness of  his  purse  still  obliged  him  to  live  in  obscure  lodgings 
somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of  Salisbury  Square,  Fleet  Street ; 
out  his  extended  acquaintance  and  rising  importance  caused  him 
to  consult  appearances.  He  adopted  an  expedient,  then  very 
common,  and  still  practised  in  London  among  those  who  have 
to  tread  the  narrow  path  between  pride  and  poverty ;  while  he 
burrowed  in  lodgings  suited  to  his  means,  he  "  hailed,"  as  it  is 


60  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

termed,  from  the  Temple  Exchange  Coffee-house  near  Temple 
Bar.  Here  he  received  his  medical  calls ;  hence  he  dated  his 
letters,  and  here  he  passed  much  of  his  leisure  hours,  conversing 
with  the  frequenters  of  the  place.  "Thirty  pounds  a  year," 
said  a  poor  Irish  painter,  who  understood  the  art  of  shifting, 
"  is  enough  to  enable  a  man  to  live  in  London  without  being 
contemptible.  Ten  pounds  will  find  him  in  clothes  and  linen ; 
he  can  live  in  a  garret  on  eighteen  pence  a  week ;  hail  from  a 
coffee-house,  where,  by  occasionally  spending  threepence,  he 
may  pass  some  hours  each  day  in  good  company ;  he  may 
breakfast  on  bread  and  milk  for  a  penny ;  dine  for  sixpence ; 
do  without  supper ;  and  on  clean-shirt  day  he  may  go  abroad 
and  pay  visits." 

Goldsmith  seems  to  have  taken  a  leaf  from  this  poor  devil's 
manual  in  respect  to  the  coffee-house  at  least.  Indeed,  coffee- 
houses in  those  days  were  the  resorts  of  wits  and  literati,  where 
the  topics  of  the  day  were  gossiped  over,  and  the  affairs  of 
literature  and  the  drama  discussed  and  criticised.  In  this  way 
he  enlarged  the  circle  of  his  intimacy,  which  now  embraced  sev- 
eral names  of  notoriety. 

Do  we  want  a  picture  of  Goldsmith's  experience  in  this  part 
of  his  career  ?  we  have  it  in  his  observations  on  the  life  of  an 
author  in  the  "  Inquiry  into  the  State  of  Polite  Learning,"  pub- 
lished some  years  afterward. 

"  The  author,  unpatronized  by  the  great,  has  naturally  re- 
course to  the  bookseller.  There  cannot,  perhaps,  be  imagined 
a  combination  more  prejudicial  to  taste  than  this.  It  is  the  in- 
terest of  the  one  to  allow  as  little  for  writing,  and  for  the  other 
to  write  as  much  as  possible  ;  accordingly  tedious  compilations 
and  periodical  magazines  are  the  result  of  their  joint  endeavors. 
In  these  circumstances  the  author  bids  adieu  to  fame ;  writes 
for  bread  ;  and  for  that  only  imagination  is  seldom  called  in. 
He  sits  down  to  address  the  venal  muse  with  the  most  phleg- 
matic apathy ;  and,  as  we  are  told  of  the  Russian,  courts  his 
mistress  by  falling  asleep  in  her  lap." 

Again.  "  Those  who  are  unacquainted  with  the  world  are 
apt  to  fancy  the  man  of  wit  as  leading  a  very  agreeable  life. 
They  conclude,  perhaps,  that  he  is  attended  with  silent  admi- 
ration, and  dictates  to  the  rest  of  mankind  with  all  the  elo- 
quence of  conscious  superiority.  Very  different  is  his  present 
situation.  He  is  called  an  author,  and  all  know  that  an  author 
is  a  thing  only  to  be  laughed  at.  His  person,  not  his  jest,  be- 
comes the  mirth  of  the  company.  At  his  approach  the  most 
fat,  unthinking  face  brightens  into  malicious  meaning.  Even 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  61 

aldermen  laugh,  and  avenge  on  him  the  ridicule  which  was 
lavished  on  their  forefathers.  .  .  .  The  poet's  poverty  is  a 
standing  topic  of  contempt.  His  writing  for  bread  is  an  un- 
pardonable offence.  Perhaps  of  all  mankind,  an  author  in 
these  times  is  used  most  hardly.  We  keep  him  poor,  and  yet 
revile  his  poverty.  We  reproach  him  for  living  by  his  wit, 
and  yet  allow  him  no  other  means  to  live.  His  taking  refuge 
in  ffarrets  and  cellars  has  of  late  been  violently  objected  to 
him,  and  that  by  men  who,  I  have  hope,  are  more  apt  to  pity  than 
insult  his  distress.  Is  poverty  a  careless  fault?  No  doubt  he 
knows  how  to  prefer  a  bottle  of  champagne  to  the  nectar  of 
the  neighboring  ale-house,  or  a  venison  pasty  to  a  plate  of  po- 
tatoes. AVant  of  delicacy  is  not  in  him,  but  in  those  who  deny 
him  the  opportunity  of  making  an  elegant  choice.  Wit  cer- 
tainly is  the  property  of  those  who  have  it,  nor  should  we  be 
displeased  if  it  is  the  only  property  a  man  sometimes  has.  We 
must  not  underrate  him  who  uses  it  for  subsistence,  and  flees 
from  the  ingratitude  of  the  age,  even  to  a  bookseller  for  re- 
dress." .  .  . 

"  If  the  author  be  necessary  among  us,  let  us  treat  him  with 
proper  consideration  as  a  child  of  the  public,  not  as  a  rent- 
charge  on  the  community.  And  indeed  a  child  of  the  public 
he  is  in  all  respects ;  for  while  so  well  able  to  direct  others,  how 
incapable  is  he  frequently  found  of  guiding  himself.  His  sim- 
plicity exposes  him  to  all  the  insidious  approaches  of  cunning ; 
his  sensibility,  to  the  slightest  invasions  of  contempt.  Though 
possessed  of  fortitude  to  stand  unmoved  the  expected  bursts 
of  an  earthquake,  yet  of  feelings  so  exquisitely  poignant  as  to 
agonize  under  the  slightest  disappointment.  Broken  rest, 
tasteless  meals,  and  causeless  anxieties  shorten  life,  and  render 
it  unfit  for  active  employments ;  prolonged  vigils  and  intense 
application  still  farther  contract  his  span,  and  make  his  time 
glide  insensibly  away." 

While  poor  Goldsmith  was  thus  struggling  with  the  difficul- 
ties and  discouragements  which  in  those  days  beset  the  path  of 
an  author,  his  friends  in  Ireland  received  accounts  of  his  lit- 
erary success  and  of  the  distinguished  acquaintances  he  was 
making.  This  was  enough  to  put  the  wise  heads  at  Lissoy  and 
Ballymahon  in  a  ferment  of  conjectures.  With  the  exagger- 
ated notions  of  provincial  relatives  concerning  the  family  great 
man  in  the  metropolis,  some  of  Goldsmith's  poor  kindred  pic- 
tured him  to  themselves  seated  in  high  places,  clothed  in  purple 
and  fine  linen,  and  hand  and  glove  with  the  givers  of  gifts  and 
dispensers  of  patronage.  Accordingly,  he  was  one  day  sur- 


62  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

prised  at  the  sudden  apparition,  in  his  miserable  lodging,  of  his 
younger  brother  Charles,  a  raw  youth  of  twenty-one,  endowed 
with  a  double  share  of  the  family  heedlessness,  and  who  ex- 
pected to  be  forthwith  helped  into  some  snug  by-path  to  for- 
tune by  one  or  other  of  Oliver's  great  friends.  Charles  was 
sadly  disconcerted  on  learning  that,  so  far  from  being  able  to 
provide  for  others,  his  brother  could  scarcely  take  care  of  him- 
self. He  looked  round  with  a  rueful  eye  on  the  poet's  quarters, 
and  could  not  help  expressing  his  surprise  and  disappointment 
at  finding  him  no  better  off.  "All  in  good  time,  my  dear 
boy,"  replied  poor  Goldsmith,  with  infinite  good-humor;  "I 
shall  be  richer  by  and  by.  Addison,  let  me  tell  you,  wrote  his 
poem  of  the  '  Campaign  '  in  a  garret  in  the  Haymarket,  three 
stories  high,  and  you  see  I  am  not  come  to  that  yet,  for  I  have 
only  got  to  the  second  story." 

Charles  Goldsmith  did  not  remain  long  to  embarrass  his 
brother  in  London.  With  the  same  roving  disposition  and 
inconsiderate  temper  of  Oliver,  he  suddenly  departed  in  an 
humble  capacity  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  West  Indies,  and 
nothing  was  heard  of  him  for  above  thirty  years,  when,  after 
having  been  given  up  as  dead  by  his  friends,  he  made  his  reap- 
pearance in  England. 

Shortly  after  his  departure,  Goldsmith  wrote  a  letter  to  his 
brother-in-law,  Daniel  Hodson,  Esq.,  of  which  the  following  is 
an  extract ;  it  was  partly  intended,  no  doubt,  to  dissipate  any 
further  illusions  concerning  his  fortunes  which  might  float  on 
the  magnificent  imagination  of  his  friends  in  Ballymahon. 

44 1  suppose  you  desire  to  know  my  present  situation.  As 
there  is  nothing  in  it  at  which  I  should  blush,  or  which  man- 
kind could  censure,  I  see  no  reason  for  making  it  a  secret.  In 
short,  by  a  very  little  practise  as  a  physician,  and  a  very  little 
reputation  as  a  poet,  I  make  a  shift  to  live.  Nothing  is  more 
apt  to  introduce  us  to  the  gates  of  the  muses  than  poverty ;  but 
it  were  well  if  they  only  left  us  at  the  door.  The  mischief 
is  they  sometimes  choose  to  give  us  their  company  to  the 
entertainment ;  and  want,  instead  of  being  gentleman-usher, 
often  turns  master  of  the  ceremonies. 

"  Thus,  upon  learning  I  write,  no  doubt  you  imagine  I  starve  ; 
and  the  name  of  an  author  naturally  reminds  you  of  a  garret. 
In  this  particular  I  do  not  think  proper  to  undeceive  my 
friends.  But,  whether  I  eat  or  starve,  live  in  a  first  floor  or 
four  pairs  of  stairs  high,  I  still  remember  them  with  ardor ;  nay, 
my  very  country  comes  in  for  a  share  of  my  affection.  Un- 
accountable fondness  for  country,  this  maladie  du  pais,  as  the 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  63 

French  call  it !  Unaccountable  that  he  should  still  have  an 
affection  for  a  place,  who  never,  when  in  it,  received  above 
common  civility  ;  who  never  brought  any  thing  out  of  it  except 
his  brogue  and  his  blunders.  Surely  my  affection  is  equally 
ridiculous  with  the  Scotchman's,  who  refused  to  be  cured  of  the 
itch  because  it  made  him  unco'  thoughtful  of  his  wife  and 
bonny  Inverary. 

"  But  now,  to  be  serious  :  let  me  ask  myself  what  gives  me  a 
wish  to  see  Ireland  again.  The  country  is  a  fine  one,  perhaps  ? 
No.  There  are  good  company  in  Ireland  ?  No.  The  conversa- 
tion there  is  generally  made  up  of  a  smutty  toast  or  a  bawdy 
song ;  the  vivacity  supported  by  some  humble  cousin,  who  had 
just  folly  enough  to  earn  his  dinner.  Then,  perhaps,  there's 
more  wit  and  learning  among  the  Irish?  Oh,  Lord,  no!  There 
has  been  more  money  spent  in  the  encouragement  of  the  Pada- 
reen  mare  there  one  season,  than  given  in  rewards  to  learned 
men  since  the  time  of  Usher.  All  their  productions  in  learning 
amount  to  perhaps  a  translation,  or  a  few  tracts  in  divinity ; 
and  all  their  productions  in  wit  to  just  nothing  at  all.  Why  the 
plague,  then,  so  fond  of  Ireland?  Then,  all  at  once,  because 
you,  my  dear  friend,  and  a  few  more  who  are  exceptions  to  the 
general  picture,  have  a  residence  there.  This  it  is  that  gives 
me  all  the  pangs  I  feel  in  separation.  I  confess  I  carry  this 
spirit  sometimes  to  the  souring  the  pleasures  I  at  present  pos- 
sess. If  I  go  to  the  opera,  where  Signora  Columba  pours  out 
all  the  mazes  of  melody,  I  sit  and  sigh  for  Lissoy  fireside,  and 
Johnny  Armstrong's  '  Last  Good-night '  from  Peggy  Golden. 
If  I  climb  Hampstead  Hill,  than  where  nature  never  exhibited 
a  more  magnificent  prospect,  I  confess  it  fine ;  but  then  I  had 
rather  be  placed  on  the  little  mount  before  Lissoy  gate,  and 
there  take  in,  to  me,  the  most  pleasing  horizon  in  nature. 

''Before  Charles  came  hither  my  thoughts  sometimes  found 
refuge  from  severer  studies  among  my  friends  in  Ireland.  I 
fancied  strange  revolutions  at  home ;  but  I  find  it  was  the  ra- 
pidity of  my  own  motion  that  gave  an  imaginary  one  to  objects 
really  at  rest.  No  alterations  there.  Some  friends,  he  tells 
me,  are  still  lean,  but  very  rich  ;  others  very  fat,  but  still  very 
poor.  Nay,  all  the  news  I  hear  of  you  is,  that  you  sally  out  in 
visits  among  the  neighbors,  and  sometimes  make  a  migration 
from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown.  I  could  from  my  heart  wish 
that  you  and  she  (Mrs.  Hodson) ,  and  Lissoy  and  Ballymahon, 
and  all  of  you,  would  fairly  make  a  migration  into  Middlesex  ; 
though,  upon  second  thoughts,  this  might  be  attended  with  a 
few  inconveniences.  Therefore,  as  the  mountain  will  not  come 


64  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

to  Mohammed,  why  Mohammed  shall  go  to  the  mountain ;  or, 
to  speak  plain  English,  as  you  cannot  conveniently  pay  me  a 
visit,  if  next  summer  I  can  contrive  to  be  absent  six  weeks  from 
London,  I  shall  spend  three  of  them  among  my  friends  in  Ire- 
land. But  first,  believe  me,  my  design  is  purely  to  visit,  and 
neither  to  cut  a  figure  nor  levy  contributions  ;  neither  to  excite 
envy  nor  solicit  favor ;  in  fact,  my  circumstances  are  adapted 
to  neither.  I  am  too  poor  to  be  gazed  at,  and  too  rich  to  need 
assistance." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HACKNEY  AUTHORSHIP THOUGHTS  OF  LITERARY  SUICIDE  —  RE- 
TURN TO  PECKHAM  —  ORIENTAL  PROJECTS LITERARY  ENTER- 
PRISE TO  RAISE  FUNDS LETTER  TO  EDWARD  WELLS TO 

ROBERT  BRYANTON DEATH  OF   UNCLE  CONTARINE  —  LETTER  TO 

COUSIN  JANE. 

FOR  some  time  Goldsmith  continued  to  write  miscellaneously 
for  reviews  and  other  periodical  publications,  but  without  mak- 
ing any  decided  hit,  to  use  a  technical  term.  Indeed,  as  yet  he 
appeared  destitute  of  the  strong  excitement  of  literary  ambi- 
tion, and  wrote  only  on  the  spur  of  necessity  and  at  the  urgent 
importunity  of  his  bookseller.  His  indolent  and  truant  dispo- 
sition, ever  averse  from  labor  and  delighting  in  holiday,  had 
to  be  scourged  up  to  its  task ;  still  it  was  this  very  truant  dis- 
position which  threw  an  unconscious  charm  over  every  thing 
he  wrote ;  bringing  with  it  honeyed  thoughts  and  pictured 
images  which  had  sprung  up  in  his  mind  in  the  sunny  hours  of 
idleness :  these  effusions,  dashed  off  on  compulsion  in  the  exi- 
gency of  the  moment,  were  published  anonymously ;  so  that 
they  made  no  collective  impression  on  the  public,  and  reflected 
no  fame  on  the  name  of  their  author. 

In  an  essay  published  some  time  subsequently  in  the  Bee, 
Goldsmith  adverts,  in  his  own  humorous  way,  to  his  impatience 
at  the  tardiness  with  which  his  desultory  and  unacknowledged 
essays  crept  into  notice.  "  I  was  once  induced,"  says  he,  "  to 
show  my  indignation  against  the  public  by  discontinuing  my 
efforts  to  please,  and  was  bravely  resolved,  Ifke  Raleigh,  to 
vex  them  by  burning  my  manuscripts  in  a  passion.  Upon 
reflection,  however,  I  considered  what  set  or  body  of  people 
would  be  displeased  at  my  rashness.  The  sun,  after  so  sad 
an  accident,  might  shine  next  morning  as  bright  as  usual; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  65 

men  might  laugh  and  sing  the  next  day,  and  transact  business 
as  before  ;  and  not  a  single  creature  feel  any  regret  but  myself. 
Instead  of  having  Apollo  in  mourning  or  the  Muses  in  a  fit  of 
the  spleen  ;  instead  of  having  the  learned  world  apostrophizing 
at  my  untimely  decease  ;  perhaps  all  Grub  Street  might  laugh  at 
my  fate,  and  self-approving  dignity  be  unable  to  shield  me  from 
ridicule." 

Circumstances  occurred  about  this  time  to  give  a  new  direc- 
tion to  Goldsmith's  hopes  and  schemes.  Having  resumed  for 
a  brief  period  the  superintendence  of  the  Peckham  school 
during  a  fit  of  illness  of  Dr.  Milner,  that  gentleman,  in 
requital  for  his  timely  services,  promised  to  use  his  influence 
with  a  friend,  an  East  India  director,  to  procure  him  a  medical 
appointment  in  India. 

There  was  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  influence  of  Dr. 
Milner  would  be  effectual ;  but  how  was  Goldsmith  to  find  the 
ways  and  means  of  fitting  himself  out  for  a  voyage  to  the 
Indies  ?  In  this  emergency  he  was  driven  to  a  more  extended 
exercise  of  the  pen  than  he  had  yet  attempted.  His  skirmish- 
ing among  books  as  a  reviewer,  and  his  disputatious  ramble 
among  the  schools  and  universities  and  literati  of  the  Con- 
tinent, had  filled  his  mind  with  facts  and  observations  which 
he  now  set  about  digesting  into  a  treatise  of  some  magnitude, 
to  be  entitled,  "An  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite 
Learning  in  Europe."  As  the  work  grew  on  his  hands  his 
sanguine  temper  ran  ahead  of  his  labors.  Feeling  secure  of 
success  in  England,  he  was  anxious  to  forestall  the  piracy  of 
the  Irish  press ;  for  as  yet,  the  union  not  having  taken  place, 
the  English  law  of  copyright  did  not  extend  to  the  other  side 
of  the  Irish  Channel.  He  wrote,  therefore,  to  his  friends  in 
Ireland,  urging  them  to  circulate  his  proposals  for  his  contem- 
plated work,  and  obtain  subscriptions  payable  in  advance ; 
the  money  to  be  transmitted  to  a  Mr.  Bradley,  an  eminent 
bookseller  in  Dublin,  who  would  give  a  receipt  for  it  and  be 
accountable  for  the  delivery  of  the  books.  The  letters  written 
by  him  on  this  occasion  are  worthy  of  copious  citation  as 
being  full  of  character  and  interest.  One  was  to  his  relative 
and  college  intimate,  Edward  Wells,  who  had  studied  for 
the  bar,  but  was  now  living  at  ease  on  his  estate  in  Ros- 
common.  "You  have  quitted,"  writes  Goldsmith,  "the  plan 
of  life  which  you  once  intended  to  pursue,  and  given  up 
ambition  for  domestic  tranquillity.  I  cannot  avoid  feeling 
some  regret  that  one  of  my  few  friends  has  declined  a  pursuit 
in  which  he  had  every  reason  to  expect  success.  I  have  often 


66  OLIVER  GOLDSMITS. 

let  my  fancy  loose  when  you  were  the  subject,  and  have 
imagined  you  gracing  the  bench,  or  thundering  at  the  bar ; 
while  I  have  taken  no  small  pride  to  myself,  and  whispered  to 
all  that  I  could  come  near,  that  this  was  my  cousin.  Instead 
of  this,  it  seems,  you  are  merely  contented  to  be  a  happy 
man ;  to  be  esteemed  by  your  acquaintances ;  to  cultivate 
your  paternal  acres ;  to  take  unmolested  a  nap  under  one  of 
your  own  hawthorns  or  in  Mrs.  Wells's  bed-chamber,  which 
even  a  poet  must  confess  is  rather  the  more  comfortable  place 
of  the  two.  But,  however  your  resolutions  may  be  altered 
with  regard  to  your  situation  in  life,  I  persuade  myself  they 
are  unalterable  with  respect  to  your  friends  in  it.  I  cannot 
think  the  world  has  taken  such  entire  possession  of  that  heart 
(once  so  susceptible  of  friendship)  as  not  to  have  left  a  corner 
there  for  a  friend  or  two,  but  I  flatter  myself  that  even  I  have 
a  place  among  the  number.  This  I  have  a  claim  to  from  the 
similitude  of  our  dispositions ;  or  setting  that  aside,  I  can 
demand  it  as  a  right  by  the  most  equitable  law  of  nature ;  I 
mean  that  of  retaliation  ;  for  indeed  you  have  more  than  your 
share  in  mine.  I  am  a  man  of  few  professions  ;  and  yet  at  this 
very  instant  I  cannot  avoid  the  painful  apprehension  that  my 
present  professions  (which  speak  not  half  my  feelings)  should 
be  considered  only  as  a  pretext  to  cover  a  request,  as  I  have  a 
request  to  make.  No,  my  dear  Ned,  I  know  you  are  too 
generous  to  think  so,  and  you  know  me  too  proud  to  stoop  to 
unnecessary  insincerity  —  I  have  a  request,  it  is  true,  to  make, 
but  as  I  know  to  whom  I  am  a  petitioner,  I  make  it  without 
diffidence  or  confusion.  It  is  in  short  this,  I  am  going  to  pub- 
lish a  book  in  London,"  etc.  The  residue  of  the  letter  specifies 
the  nature  of  the  request,  which  was  merely  to  aid  in  circulat- 
ing his  proposals  and  obtaining  subscriptions.  The  letter  of 
the  poor  author,  however,  was  unattended  to  and  unacknowl- 
edged by  the  prosperous  Mr.  Wells,  of  Roscommon,  though  in 
after  years  he  was  proud  to  claim  relationship  to  Dr.  Goldsmith, 
when  he  had  risen  to  celebrity. 

Another  of  Goldsmith's  letters  was  to  Robert  Bryanton, 
with  whom  he  had  long  ceased  to  be  in  correspondence.  "I 
believe,"  writes  he,  "that  they  who  are  drunk,  or  out  of  their 
wits,  fancy  everybody  else  in  the  same  condition.  Mine  is  a 
friendship  that  neither  distance  nor  time  can  efface,  which  is 
probably  the  reason  that,  for  the  soul  of  me,  I  can't  avoid 
thinking  yours  of  the  same  complexion  ;  and  yet  I  have  many 
reasons  for  being  of  a  contrary  opinion,  else  why,  in  so  long 
an  absence,  was  I  never  made  a  partner  in  your  concerns? 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  67 

To  hear  of  your  success  would  have  given  me  the  utmost 
pleasure ;  and  a  communication  of  your  very  disappointments 
would  divide  the  uneasiness  I  too  frequently  feel  for  my  own. 
Indeed,  my  dear  Bob,  you  don't  conceive  how  unkindly  you 
have  treated  one  whose  circumstances  afford  him  few  pros- 
pects of  pleasure,  except  those  reflected  from  the  happiness  of 
his  friends.  However,  since  you  have  not  let  me  hear  from 
you,  I  have  in  some  measure  disappointed  your  neglect  by 
frequently  thinking  of  you.  Every  day  or  so  I  remember  the 
calm  anecdotes  of  your  life,  from  the  fireside  to  the  easy  chair ; 
recall  the  various  adventures  that  first  cemented  our  friendship ; 
the  school,  the  college,  or  the  tavern  ;  preside  in  fancy  over 
your  cards ;  and  am  displeased  at  your  bad  play  when  the 
rubber  goes  against  you,  though  not  with  all  that  agony  of 
soul  as  when  I  was  once  your  partner.  Is  it  not  strange  that 
two  of  such  like  affections  should  be  so  much  separated,  and 
so  differently  employed  as  we  are?  You  seem  placed  at  the 
centre  of  fortune's  wheel,  and,  let  it  revolve  ever  so  fast,  are 
insensible  of  the  motion.  I  seem  to  have  been  tied  to  the  cir- 
cumference, and  whirled  disagreeably  round,  as  if  on  a  whirli- 
gig-" 

He  then  runs  into  a  whimsical  and  extravagant  tirade  about 
his  future  prospects,  the  wonderful  career  of  fame  and  for- 
tune that  awaits  him  ;  and  after  indulging  in  all  kinds  of  humor- 
ous gasconades,  concludes :  "  Let  me,  then,  stop  my  fancy  to 
take  a  view  of  my  future  self — and,  as  the  boys  say,  light  down 
to  see  myself  on  horseback.  Well,  now  that  I  am  down,  where 
the  d — 1  is  If  Oh  gods !  gods !  here  in  a  garret,  writing  for 
bread,  and  expecting  to  be  dunned  for  a  milk  score !  " 

He  would,  on  this  occasion,  have  doubtless  written  to  his 
uncle  Contarine,  but  that  generous  friend  was  sunk  into  a  help- 
less hopeless  state  from  which  death  soon  released  him. 

Cut  off  thus  from  the  kind  co-operation  of  his  uncle,  he  ad- 
dresses a  letter  to  his  cousin  Jane,  the  companion  of  his  school- 
boy and  happy  days,  now  the  wife  of  Mr.  Lawder.  The  object 
was  to  secure  her  interest  with  her  husband  in  promoting  the 
circulation  of  his  proposals.  The  letter  is  full  of  character. 

"If  you  should  ask,"  he  begins,  "  why,  in  an  interval  of  so 
many  years,  you  never  heard  from  me,  permit  me,  madam,  to 
ask  the  same  question.  I  have  the  best  excuse  in  recrimination. 
I  wrote  to  Kilmore  from  Leyden  in  Holland,  from  Louvain  in 
Flanders,  and  Rouen  in  France,  but  received  no  answer.  To 
what  could  I  attribute  this  silence  but  to  displeasure  or  forgetful- 
ness  ?  Whether  I  was  right  in  my  conjecture  I  do  not  pretend 


68  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

to  determine ;  but  this  I  must  ingenuously  own,  that  I  have  a 
thousand  times  in  my  turn  endeavored  to  forget  them,  whom  1 
could  not  but  look  upon  as  forgetting  me.  I  have  attempted  to 
blot  their  names  from  my  memory,  and,  I  confess  it,  spent  whole 
days  in  efforts  to  tear  their  image  from  my  heart.  Could  I  have 
succeeded,  you  had  not  now  been  troubled  with  this  renewal  of 
a  discontinued  correspondence  ;  but,  as  every  effort  the  restless 
make  to  procure  sleep  serves  but  to  keep  them  waking,  all  my 
attempts  contributed  to  impress  what  I  would  forget  deeper  on 
my  imagination.  But  this  subject  I  would  willingly  turn  from, 
and  yet,  '  for  the  soul  of  me,'  I  can't  till  I  have  said  all.  I  was, 
madam,  when  I  discontinued  writing  to  Kilmore,  in  such  circum- 
stances that  all  my  endeavors  to  continue  your  regards  might 
be  attributed  to  wrong  motives.  My  letters  might  be  looked 
upon  as  the  petitions  of  a  beggar,  and  not  the  offerings  of  a 
friend  ;  while  all  my  professions,  instead  of  being  considered  as 
the  result  of  disinterested  esteem,  might  be  ascribed  to  venal 
insincerity.  I  believe,  indeed,  you  had  too  much  generosity  to 
place  them  in  such  a  light,  but  I  could  not  bear  even  the  shadow 
of  such  a  suspicion.  The  most  delicate  friendships  are  always 
most  sensible  of  the  slightest  invasion,  and  the  strongest  jealousy 
is  ever  attendant  on  the  warmest  regard.  I  could  not — I  own  I 
could  not  —  continue  a  correspondence  in  which  every  acknowl- 
edgment for  past  favors  might  be  considered  as  an  indirect  re- 
quest for  future  ones  ;  and  where  it  might  be  thought  I  gave  my 
heart  from  a  motive  of  gratitude  alone,  when  I  was  conscious 
of  having  bestowed  it  on  much  more  disinterested  principles. 
It  is  true,  this  conduct  might  have  been  simple  enough ;  but 
yourself  must  confess  it  was  in  character.  Those  who  know 
me  at  all,  know  that  I  have  always  been  actuated  by  different 
principles  from  the  rest  of  mankind  :  and  while  none  regarded 
the  interest  of  his  friend  more,  no  man  on  earth  regarded  his 
own  less.  I  have  often  affected  bluntness  to  avoid  the  impu- 
tation of  flattery ;  have  frequently  seemed  to  overlook  those 
merits  too  obvious  to  escape  notice,  and  pretended  disregard  to 
those  instances  of  good  nature  and  good  sense,  which  I  could 
not  fail  tacitly  to  applaud ;  and  all  this  lest  I  should  be  ranked 
among  the  grinning  tribe,-  who  say  '  very  true '  to  all  that  is 
said  ;  who  fill  a  vacant  chair  at  a  tea-table  ;  whose  narrow  souls 
never  moved  in  a  wider  circle  than  the  circumference  of  a  guinea ; 
and  who  had  rather  be  reckoning  the  money  in  your  pocket  than 
the  virtue  in  your  breast.  All  this,  I  say,  I  have  done,  and  a 
thousand  other  very  silly,  though  very  disinterested,  things  in 
my  time,  and  for  all  which  no  soul  cares  a  farthing  about  me. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  69 

...  Is  it  to  be  wondered  that  he  should  once  in  his  life  forget 
you,  who  has  been  all  his  life  forgetting  himself?  However,  it 
is  probable  you  may  one  of  these  days  see  me  turned  into  a 
perfect  hunks,  and  as  dark  and  intricate  as  a  mouse-hole.  I 
have  already  given  my  landlady  orders  for  an  entire  reform  in 
the  state  of  my  finances.  I  declaim  against  hot  suppers,  drink 
less  sugar  in  my  tea,  and  check-  my  grate  with  brickbats.  In- 
stead of  hanging  my  room  with  pictures,  I  intend  to  adorn  it 
with  maxims  of  frugality.  Those  will  make  pretty  furniture 
enough,  and  won't  be  a  bit  too  expensive  ;  for  I  will  draw  them 
all  out  with  my  own  hands,  and  my  landlady's  daughter  shall 
frame  them  with  the  parings  of  my  black  waistcoat.  Each 
maxim  is  to  be  inscribed  on  a  sheet  of  clean  paper,  and  wrote 
with  my  best  pen  ;  of  which  the  following  will  serve  as  a  speci- 
men. Look  sharjt:  Mind  the  main  chance:  Money  is  money 
now :  If  you  have  a,  thousand  pounds  you  can  put  your  hands 
ly  your  sides,  and  say  you  are  ivorth  a  thousand  pounds  every 
day  of  the  year:  Take  a  farthing  from  a  hundred  and  it  will  be 
a  hundred  no  longer.  Thus,  which  way  soever  I  turn  my  eyes, 
they  are  sure  to  meet  one  of  those  friendly  monitors  ;  and  as  we 
are  told  of  an  actor  who  hung  his  room  round  with  looking-glass 
to  correct  the  defects  of  his  person,  my  apartment  shall  be  fur- 
nished in  a  peculiar  manner,  to  correct  the  errors  of  my  mind. 
Faith !  madam,  I  heartily  wish  to  be  rich,  if  it  were  only  for 
this  reason,  to  say  without  a  blush  how  much  I  esteem  you. 
But,  alas !  I  have  many  a  fatigue  to  encounter  before  that 
happy  time  comes,  when  your  poor  old  simple  friend  may  again 
give  a  loose  to  the  luxuriance  of  his  nature  ;  sitting  by  Kilmore 
fireside,  recount  the  various  adventures  of  a  hard-fought  life ; 
laugh  over  the  follies  of  the  day ;  join  his  flute  to  your  harpsi- 
chord ;  and  forget  that  ever  he  starved  in  those  streets  where 
Butler  and  Otway  starved  before  him.  And  now  I  mention 
those  great  names  —  my  uncle  !  he  is  no  more  that  soul  of  fire 
as  when  I  once  knew  him.  Newton  and  Swift  grew  dim  with 
age  as  well  as  he.  But  what  shall  I  say?  His  mind  was  too 
active  an  inhabitant  not  to  disorder  the  feeble  mansion  of  its 
abode  :  for  the  richest  jewels  soonest  wear  their  settings.  Yet 
who  but  the  fool  would  lament  his  condition  !  He  now  forgets 
the  calamities  of  life.  Perhaps  indulgent  Heaven  has  given 
him  a  foretaste  of  that  tranquillity  here,  which  he  so  well  de- 
serves hereafter.  But  I  must  come  to  business ;  for  business, 
as  one  of  my  maxims  tells  me,  must  be  minded  or  lost.  I  an? 
going  to  publish  in  London  a  book  entitled  k  The  Present  State 
of  Taste  and  Literature  in  Europe.'  The  booksellers  in  Ireland 


76  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

republish  every  performance  there  without  making  the  author 
any  consideration.  I  would,  in  this  respect,  disappoint  their 
avarice  and  have  all  the  profits  of  my  labor  to  myself.  I  must 
therefore  request  Mr.  Lawder  to  circulate  among  his  friends  and 
acquaintances  a  hundred  of  my  proposals  which  I  have  given  the 
bookseller,  Mr.  Bradley,  in  Dame  Street,  directions  to  send  to 
him.  If,  in  pursuance  of  such  circulation,  he  should  receive 
any  subscriptions,  I  entreat,  when  collected,  they  may  be  sent 
to  Mr.  Bradley,  as  aforesaid,  who  will  give  a  receipt,  and  be 
accountable  for  the  work,  or  a  return  of  the  subscription.  If 
this  request  (which,  if  it  be  complied  with,  will  in  some  measure 
be  an  encouragement  to  a  man  of  learning)  should  be  disagree- 
able or  troublesome,  I  would  not  press  it ;  for  I  would  be  the 
last  man  on  earth  to  have  my  labors  go  a-begging  ;  but  if  I  know 
Mr.  Lawder  (and  sure  I  ought  to  know  him),  he  will  accept  the 
employment  with  pleasure.  All  I  can  say  —  if  he  writes  a  book, 
I  will  get  him  two  hundred  subscribers,  and  those  of  the  best 
wits  in  Europe.  Whether  this  request  is  complied  with  or  not, 
I  shall  not  be  uneasy ;  but  there  is  one  petition  I  must  make  to 
him  and  to  you,  which  I  solicit  with  the  warmest  ardor,  and  in 
which  I  cannot  bear  a  refusal.  I  mean,  dear  madam,  that  I 
may  be  allowed  to  subscribe  myself,  your  ever  affectionate  and 
obliged  kinsman,  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  Now  see  how  I  blot  and 
blunder,  when  I  am  asking  a  favor." 


CHAPTER  X. 

ORIENTAL   APPOINTMENT AND     DISAPPOINTMENT EXAMINATION 

AT   THE   COLLEGE    OF    SURGEONS  —  HOW   TO    PROCURE    A  SUIT  OP 

CLOTHES — FRESH    DISAPPOINTMENT A    TALE    OF    DISTRESS  — 

THE    SUIT   OF   CLOTHES    IN    PAWN PUNISHMENT   FOR  DOING   AN 

ACT   OF   CHARITY GAYETIES    OF  GREEN  ARBOR  COURT  —  LETTER 

TO   HIS    BROTHER  —  LIFE  OF  VOLTAIRE  —  SCROGGIN,  AN  ATTEMPT 
AT   MOCK-HEROIC    POETRY. 

WHILE  Goldsmith  was  yet  laboring  at  his  treatise,  the  promise 
made  him  by  Dr.  Milner  was  carried  into  effect,  and  he  was 
actually  appointed  physician  and  surgeon  to  one  of  the  factories 
on  the  coast  of  Coromandel.  His  imagination  was  immediately 
on  fire  with  visions  of  Oriental  wealth  and  magnificence.  It  is 
true  the  salary  did  not  exceed  one  hundred  pounds,  but  then,  as 
appointed  physician,  he  would  have  the  exclusive  practice  of  the 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  71 

place,  amounting  to  one  thousand  pounds  per  annum ;  with 
advantages  to  be  derived  from  trade,  and  from  the  high  interest 
of  money  —  twenty  per  cent ;  in  a  word,  for  once  in  his  life, 
the  road  to  fortune  lay  broad  and  straight  before  him. 

Hitherto,  in  his  correspondence  with  his  friends,  he  had  said 
nothing  of  his  India  scheme  ;  but  now  he  imparted  to  them  his 
brilliant  prospects,  urging  the  importance  of  their  circulating 
his  proposals  and  obtaining  him  subscriptions  and  advances  on 
his  forthcoming  work,  to  furnish  funds  for  his  outfit. 

In  the  mean  time  he  had  to  task  that  poor  drudge,  his  muse, 
for  present  exigencies.  Ten  pounds  were  demanded  for  his 
appointment-warrant.  Other  expenses  pressed  hard  upon  him. 
Fortunately,  though  as  yet  unknown  to  fame,  his  literary  capa- 
bility was  known  to  "  the  trade,"  and  the  coinage  of  his  brain 
passed  current  in  Grub  Street.  Archibald  Hamilton,  proprietor 
of  the  Critical  Revietv,  the  rival  to  that  of  Griffiths,  readily 
made  him  a  small  advance  on  receiving  three  articles  for  his 
periodical.  His  purse  thus  slenderly  replenished,  Goldsmith 
paid  for  his  warrant ;  wiped  off  the  score  of  his  milkmaid ; 
abandoned  his  garret,  and  moved  into  a  shabby  first  floor  in  a 
forlorn  court  near  the  Old  Bailey ;  there  to  await  the  time  for 
his  migration  to  the  magnificent  coast  of  Coromandel. 

Alas !  poor  Goldsmith !  ever  doomed  to  disappointment. 
Early  in  the  gloomy  month  of  November,  that  month  of  fog 
and  despondency  in  London,  he  learned  the  shipwreck  of  his 
hope.  The  great  Coromandel  enterprise  fell  through  ;  or  rather 
the  post  promised  to  him  was  transferred  to  some  other  candi- 
date. The  cause  of  this  disappointment  it  is  now  impossible  to 
ascertain.  The  death  of  his  quasi  patron,  Dr.  Milner,  which 
happened  about  this  time,  may  have  had  some  effect  in  pro- 
ducing it ;  or  there  may  have  been  some  heedlessness  and 
blundering  on  his  own  part ;  or  some  obstacle  arising  from 
his  insuperable  indigence ;  whatever  may  have  been  the  cause, 
he  never  mentioned  it,  which  gives  some  ground  to  surmise 
that  he  himself  was  to  blame.  His  friends  learned  with  sur- 
prise that  he  had  suddenly  relinquished  his  appointment  to 
India  about  which  he  had  raised  such  sanguine  expectations ; 
some  accused  him  of  fickleness  and  caprice ;  others  supposed 
him  unwilling  to  tear  himself  from  the  growing  fascinations  of 
the  literary  society  of  London. 

In  the  mean  time,  cut  down  in  his  hopes,  and  humiliated  in 
his  pride  by  the  failure  of  his  Coromandel  scheme,  he  sought, 
without  consulting  his  friends,  to  be  examined  at  the  College 
of  Physicians  for  the  humble  situation  of  hospital  mate.  Even 


72  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

here  poverty  stood  in  his  way.  It  was  necessary  tc  appear  in 
a  decent  garb  before  the  examining  committee ;  but  how  was 
he  to  do  so?  He  was  literally  out  at  elbows  as  well  as  out  of 
cash.  Here  again  the  muse,  so  often  jilted  and  neglected  by 
him,  came  to  his  aid.  In  consideration  of  four  articles  fur- 
nished to  the  Monthly  Review,  Griffiths,  his  old  taskmaster, 
was  to  become  his  security  to  the  tailor  for  a  suit  of  clothes. 
Goldsmith  said  he  wanted  them  but  for  a  single  occasion,  on 
which  depended  his  appointment  to  a  situation  in  the  army  ;  as 
soon  as  that  temporary  purpose  was  served  they  would  either 
be  returned  or  paid  for.  The  books  to  be  reviewed  were  ac- 
cordingly lent  to  him  ;  the  muse  was  again  set  to  her  compul- 
sory drudgery ;  the  articles  were  scribbled  off  and  sent  to  the 
bookseller,  and  the  clothes  came  in  due  time  from  the  tailor. 

From  the  records  of  the  College  of  Surgeons,  it  appears  that 
Goldsmith  underwent  his  examination  at  Surgeons'  Hall  on 
the  21st  of  December,  1758. 

Either  from  a  confusion  of  mind  incident  to  sensitive  and 
imaginative  persons  on  such  occasions,  or  from  a  real  want  of 
surgical  science,  which  last  is  extremely  probable,  he  failed  in 
his  examination,  and  was  rejected  as  unqualified.  The  effect 
of  such  a  rejection  was  to  disqualify  him  for  every  branch  of 
public  service,  though  he  might  have  claimed  a  re-examina- 
tion, after  the  interval  of  a  few  months  devoted  to  further 
study.  Such  a  re-examination  he  never  attempted,  nor  did  he 
ever  communicate  his  discomfiture  to  any  of  his  friends. 

On  Christmas  day,  but  four  days  after  his  rejection  by  the 
College  of  Surgeons,  while  he  was  suffering  under  the  mortifi- 
cation of  defeat  and  disappointment,  and  hard  pressed  for 
means  of  subsistence,  he  was  surprised  by  the  entrance  into  his 
room  of  the  poor  woman  of  whom  he  hired  his  wretched  apart- 
ment, and  to  whom  he  owed  some  small  arrears  of  rent.  She 
had  a  piteous  tale  of  distress,  and  was  clamorous  in  her  afflic- 
tions. Her  husband  had  been  arrested  in  the  night  for  debt, 
and  thrown  into  prison.  This  was  too  much  for  the  quick 
feelings  of  Goldsmith ;  he  was  ready  at  any  time  to  help  the 
distressed,  but  in  this  instance  he  was  himself  in  some  measure 
a  cause  of  the  distress.  What  was  to  be  done?  He  had  no 
money,  it  is  true ;  but  there  hung  the  new  suit  of  clothes  in 
which  he  had  stood  his  unlucky  examination  at  Surgeons'  Hall. 
Without  giving  himself  time  for  reflection,  he  sent  it  off  to  the 
pawnbroker's,  and  raised  thereon  a  sufficient  sum  to  pay  off 
his  own  debt,  and  to  release  his  landlord  from  prison. 

Under  the  same  pressure   of  penury  and   despondency,   he 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  73 

borrowed  from  a  neighbor  a  pittance  to  relieve  his  immediate 
wants,  leaving  as  a  security  the  books  which  he  had  recently 
reviewed.  In  the  midst  of  these  straits  and  harassments,  he 
received  a  letter  from  Griffiths  demanding  in  peremptory  terms 
the  return  of  the  clothes  and  books,  or  immediate  payment  for 
the  same.  It  appears  that  he  had  discovered  the  identical  suit 
at  the  pawnbroker's.  The  reply  of  Goldsmith  is  not  known  ; 
it  was  out  of  his  power  to  furnish  either  the  clothes  or  the 
money ;  but  he  probably  offered  once  more  to  make  the  muse 
stand  his  bail.  His  reply  only  increased  the  ire  of  the  wealthy 
man  of  trade,  and  drew  from  him  another  letter  still  more 
harsh  than  the  first,  using  the  epithets  of  knave  and  sharper, 
and  containing  threats  of  prosecution  and  a  prison. 

The  following  letter  from  poor  Goldsmith  gives  the  most 
touching  picture  of  an  inconsiderate  but  sensitive  man,  har- 
assed by  care,  stung  by  humiliations,  and  driven  almost  to 
despondency.  "  SIR:  I  know  of  no  misery  but  a  jail  to  which 
my  own  imprudences  and  your  letter  seem  to  point.  I  have 
seen  it  inevitable  these  three  or  four  weeks,  and,  by  heavens ! 
request  it  as  a  favor  —  as  a  favor  that  may  prevent  something 
more  fatal.  I  have  been  some  years  struggling  with  a  wretched 
being  —  with  all  that  contempt  that  indigence  brings  with  it  — 
with  all  those  passions  which  make  contempt  insupportable. 
What,  then,  has  a  jail  that  is  formidable?  I  shall  at  least  have 
the  society  of  wretches,  and  such  is  to  me  true  society.  I  tell 
you,  again  and  again,  that  I  am  neither  able  nor  willing  to  pay 
you  a  farthing,  but  I  will  be  punctual  to  any  appointment  you 
or  the  tailor  shall  make ;  thus  far,  at  least,  I  do  not  act  the 
sharper,  since,  unable  to  pay  my  own  debts  one  way,  I  would 
generally  give  some  security  another.  No,  sir ;  had  I  been  a 
sharper  —  had  I  been  possessed  of  less  good-nature  and  native 
generosity,  I  might  surely  now  have  been  in  better  circum- 
stances. 

"I  am  guilty,  I  own,  of  meannesses  which  poverty  unavoid- 
ably brings  with  it ;  my  reflections  are  filled  with  repentance 
for  my  imprudence,  but  not  with  any  remorse  for  being  a  vil- 
lain ;  that  may  be  a  character  you  unjustly  charge  me  with. 
Your  books,  I  can  assure  you,  are  neither  pawned  nor  sold, 
but  in  the  custody  of  a  friend,  from  whom  my  necessities 
obliged  me  to  borrow  some  money ;  whatever  becomes  of  my 
person,  you  shall  have  them  in  a  month.  It  is  very  possible 
both  the  reports  you  have  heard  and  your  own  suggestions 
may  have  brought  you  false  information  with  respect  to  my 
character ;  it  is  very  possible  that  the  man  whom  you  now 


74  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

regard  with  detestation  may  inwardly  burn  with  grateful  re- 
sentment. It  is  very  possible  that,  upon  a  second  perusal  of 
the  letter  I  sent  you,  you  may  see  the  workings  of  a  mind 
strongly  agitated  with  gratitude  and  jealousy.  If  such  circum- 
stances should  appear,  at  least  spare  invective  till  my  book 
with  Mr.  Dodsley  shall  be  published,  and  then,  perhaps,  you 
may  see  the  bright  side  of  a  mind,  when  my  professions  shall 
not  appear  the  dictates  of  necessity,  but  of  choice. 

"  You  seem  to  think  Dr.  Milner  knew  me  not.  Perhaps  so  ; 
but  he  was  a  man  I  shall  ever  honor ;  but  I  have  friendships 
only  with  the  dead  !  I  ask  pardon  for  taking  up  so  much  time  ; 
nor  shall  I  add  to  it  by  any  other  professions  than  that  I  am 
sir,  your  humble  servant, 

"OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

"  P.S.  — I  shall  expect  impatiently  the  result  of  your  resolu- 
tions." 

The  dispute  between  the  poet  and  the  publisher  was  after- 
ward imperfectly  adjusted,  and  it  would  appear  that  the  clothes 
were  paid  for  by  a  short  compilation  advertised  by  Griffiths  in 
the  course  of  the  following  month ;  but  the  parties  were  never 
really  friends  afterwards,  and  the  writings  of  Goldsmith  were 
harshly  and  unjustly  treated  in  the  Monthly  Review. 

We  have  given  the  preceding  anecdote  in  detail,  as  furnish- 
ing one  of  the  many  instances  in  which  Goldsmith's  prompt 
and  benevolent  impulses  outran  all  prudent  forecast,  and  in- 
volved him  in  difficulties  and  disgraces,  which  a  more  selfish 
man  would  have  avoided.  The  pawning  of  the  clothes,  charged 
upon  him  as  a  crime  by  the  grinding  bookseller,  and  apparently 
admitted  by  him  as  one  of  "  the  meannesses  which  poverty  un- 
avoidably brings  with  it,"  resulted,  as%  we  have  shown,  from  a 
tenderness  of  heart  and  generosity  of  hand  in  which  another 
man  would  have  gloried ;  but  these  were  such  natural  elements 
with  him,  that  he  was  unconscious  of  their  merit.  It  is  a  pity 
that  wealth  does  not  oftener  bring  such  "  meannesses  "  in  its 
train. 

And  now  let  us  be  indulged  in  a  few  particulars  about  these 
lodgings  in  which  Goldsmith  was  guilty  of  this  thoughtless  act 
of  benevolence.  They  were  in  a  very  shabby  house,  No.  12 
Green  Arbor  Court,  between  the  Old  Bailey  and  Fleet  Market. 
An  old  woman  was  still  living  in  1820  who  was  a  relative  of  the 
identical  landlady  whom  Goldsmith  relieved  by  the  money  re- 
ceived from  the  pawnbroker.  She  was  a  child  about  sevea 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  75 

years  of  age  at  the  time  that  the  poet  rented  his  apartment  oi 
her  relative,  and  used  frequently  to  be  at  the  house  in  Green 
Arbor  Court.  She  was  drawn  there,  in  a  great  measure,  by 
the  good-humored  kindness  of  Goldsmith,  who  was  always  ex- 
ceedingly fond  of  the  society  of  children.  He  used  to  assemble 
those  of  the  family  in  his  room,  give  them  cakes  and  sweet- 
meats, and  set  them  dancing  to  the  sound  of  his  flute.  He  was 
very  friendly  to  those  around  him,  and  cultivated  a  kind  of 
intimacy  with  a  watchmaker  in  the  Court,  who  possessed  much 
native  wit  and  humor.  He  passed  most  of  the  day,  however, 
in  his  room,  and  only  went  out  in  the  evenings.  His  days  were 
no  doubt  devoted  to  the  drudgery  of  the  pen,  and  it  would 
appear  that  he  occasionally  found  the  booksellers  urgent  task- 
masters. On  one  occasion  a  visitor  was  shown  up  to  his  room, 
and  immediately  their  voices  were  heard  in  high  altercation,  and 
the  key  was  turned  within  the  lock.  The  landlady,  at  first, 
was  disposed  to  go  to  the  assistance  of  her  lodger ;  but  a  calm 
succeeding,  she  forbore  to  interfere. 

Late  in  the  evening  the  door  was  unlocked  ;  a  supper  ordered 
by  the  visitor  from  a  neighboring  tavern,  and  Goldsmith  and 
his  intrusive  guest  finished  the  evening  in  great  good-humor. 
It  was  probably  his  old  taskmaster  Griffiths,  whose  press  might 
have  been  waiting,  and  who  found  no  other  mode  of  getting  a 
stipulated  task  from  Goldsmith  than  by  locking  him  in,  and 
staying  by  him  until  it  was  finished. 

But  we  have  a  more  particular  account  of  these  lodgings  in 
Green  Arbor  Court  from  the  Rev.  Thomas  Percy,  afterward 
Bishop  of  Dromore,  and  celebrated  for  his  relics  of  ancient 
poetry,  his  beautiful  ballads,  and  other  works.  During  an 
occasional  visit  to  London,  he  was  introduced  to  Goldsmith  by 
Grainger,  and  ever  after  continued  one  of  his  most  steadfast 
and  valued  friends.  The  following  is  his  description  of  the 
poet's  squalid  apartment:  "  I  called  on  Goldsmith  at  his  lodg- 
ings in  March,  1759,  and  found  him  writing  his  '  Inquiry  '  in  a 
miserable  dirty-looking  room,  in  which  there  was  but  one  chair ; 
and  when,  from  civility,  he  resigned  it  to  me,  he  himself  was 
obliged  to  sit  in  the  window.  While  we  were  conversing  to- 
gether some  one  tapped  gently  at  the  door,  and  being  desired  to 
come  in,  a  poor,  ragged  little  girl,  of  a  very  becoming  demeanor, 
entered  the  room,  and  dropping  a  courtesy,  said,  '  My  mamma 
sends  her  compliments  and  begs  the  favor  of  you  to  lend  her  a 
chamber-pot  full  of  coals.'  " 

We  are  reminded  in  this  anecdote  of  Goldsmith's  picture  of 
the  lodgings  of  Beau  Tibbs,  and  of  the  peep  into  the  secret* 


76  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

of  a  makeshift  establishment  given  to  a  visitor  by  the  blunder- 
ing old  Scotch  woman. 

"  By  this  time  we  were  arrived  as  high  as  the  stairs  would 
permit  us  to  ascend,  till  we  came  to  what  he  was  facetiously 
pleased  to  call  the  first  floor  down  the  chimney  ;  and,  knocking 
at  the  door,  a  voice  from  within  demanded  'Who's  there?' 
My  conductor  answered  that  it  was  him.  But  this  not  satisfy- 
ing the  querist,  the  voice  again  repeated  the  demand,  to  which 
he  answered  louder  than  before  ;  and  now  the  door  was  opened 
by  an  old  woman  with  cautious  reluctance. 

"  When  we  got  in  he  welcomed  me  to  his  house  with  great 
ceremony ;  and,  turning  to  the  old  woman,  asked  where  was 
her  lady.  '  Good  troth,'  replied  she,  in  a  peculiar  dialect, 
1  she's  washing  your  twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because  they 
have  taken  an  oath  against  lending  the  tub  any  longer.'  '  My 
two  shirts,'  cried  he,  in  a  tone  that  faltered  with  confusion; 
'  what  does  the  idiot  mean ? '  'I  ken  what  I  mean  weel  enough,' 
replied  the  other  ;  '  she's  washing  your  twa  shirts  at  the  next 
door,  because  —  '  '  Fire  and  fury !  no  more  of  thy  stupid  ex- 
planations,' cried  he ;  'go  and  inform  her  we  have  company. 
Were  that  Scotch  hag  to  be  forever  in  my  family,  she  would 
never  learn  politeness,  nor  forget  that  absurd  poisonous  accent 
of  hers,  or  testify  the  smallest  specimen  of  breeding  or  high 
life ;  and  yet  it  is  very  surprising  too,  as  I  had  her  from  a  Par- 
liament man,  a  friend  of  mine  from  the  Highlands,  one  of  the 
politest  men  in  the  world  ;  but  that's  a  secret.'  " l 

Let  us  linger  a  little  in  Green  Arbor  Court,  a  place  conse- 
crated by  the  genius  and  the  poverty  of  Goldsmith,  but  re- 
cently obliterated  in  the  course  of  modern  improvements.  The 
writer  of  this  memoir  visited  it  not  many  years  since  on  a  lit- 
erary pilgrimage,  and  may  be  excused  for  repeating  a  descrip- 
tion of  it  which  he  has  heretofore  inserted  in  another  publication. 
"  It  then  existed  in  its  pristine  state,  and  was  a  small  square  of 
tall  and  miserable  houses,  the  very  intestines  of  which  seemed 
turned  inside  out,  to  judge  from  the  old  garments  and  frippery 
that  fluttered  from  every  window.  It  appeared  to  be  a  region 
of  washerwomen,  and  lines  were  stretched  about  the  little  square, 
on  which  clothes  were  dangling  to  dry. 

"  Just  as  we  entered  the  square,  a  scuffle  took  place  between 
two  viragoes  about  a  disputed  right  to  a  washtub,  and  imme- 
diately the  whole  community  was  in  a  hubbub.  Heads  in  mob- 
caps  popped  out  of  every  window,  and  such  a  clamor  of  tongues 

i  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  iv. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  77 

ensued  that  I  was  fain  to  stop  my  ears.  Every  amazon  took 
part  with  one  or  other  of  the  disputants,  and  brandished  her 
arms,  dripping  with  soapsuds,  and  fired  away  from  her  window 
as  from  the  embrasure  of  a  fortress  ;  while  the  screams  of  chil- 
dren nestled  and  cradled  in  every  procreant  chamber  of  this 
hive,  waking  with  the  noise,  set  up  their  shrill  pipes  to  swell  the 
general  concert."  l 

While  in  these  forlorn  quarters,  suffering  under  extreme  de- 
pression of  spirits,  caused  by  his  failure  at  Surgeons'  Hall,  the 
disappointment  of  his  hopes,  and  his  harsh  collisions  with 
Griffiths,  Goldsmith  wrote  the  following  letter  to  his  brother 
Henry,  some  parts  of  which  are  most  touchingly  mournful. 

"DEAR  SIR:  Your  punctuality  in  answering  a  man  whose 
trade  is  writing,  is  more  than  I  had  reason  to  expect ;  and  yet 
you  see  me  generally  fill  a  whole  sheet,  which  is  all  the  recom- 
pense I  can  make  for  being  so  frequently  troublesome.  The 
behavior  of  Mr.  Wells  and  Mr.  Lawder  is  a  little  extraordinary. 
However,  their  answering  neither  you  nor  me  is  a  sufficient  indi- 
cation of  their  disliking  the  employment  which  I  assigned  them. 
As  their  conduct  is  different  from  what  I  had  expected,  so  I 
have  made  an  alteration  in  mine.  I  shall,  the  beginning  of  next 
month,  send  over  two  hundred  and  fifty  books,12  which  are  all 
that  I  fancy  can  be  well  sold  among  you,  and  I  would  have  you 
make  some  distinction  in  the  persons  who  have  subscribed.  The 
money,  which  will  amount  to  sixty  pounds,  may  be  left  with 
Mr.  Bradley  as  soon  as  possible.  I  am  not  certain  but  I  shall 
quickly  have  occasion  for  it. 

"  I  have  met  with  no  disappointment  with  respect  to  my  East 
India  voyage,  nor  are  my  resolutions  altered ;  though,  at  the 
same  time,  I  must  confess,  it  gives  me  some  pain  to  think  I  am 
almost  beginning  the  world  at  the  age  of  thirty-one.  Though  I 
never  had  a  day's  sickness  since  I  saw  you,  yet  I  am  not  that 
strong,  active  man  you  once  knew  me.  You  scarcely  can  con- 
ceive how  much  eight  years  of  disappointment,  anguish,  and 
study  have  worn  me  down.  If  I  remember  right  you  are  seven 
or  eight  years  older  than  me,  yet  I  dare  venture  to  say,  that,  if 
a  stranger  saw  us  both,  he  would  pay  me  the  honors  of  seniority. 
Imagine  to  yourself  a  pale,  melancholy  visage,  with  two  great 
wrinkles  between  the  eyebrows,  with  an  eye  disgustingly  severe, 
and  a  big  wig  ;  and  you  may  have  a  perfect  picture  of  my  pres- 
ent appearance.  On  the  other  hand,  I  conceive  you  as  perfectly 

1  Tales  of  a  TraveMer. 

-  The  Inquiry  into  Polite  Literature.  Hie  previous  remarks  apply  to  the  subecrip- 
tiou. 


T8  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

sleek  and  healthy,  passing  many  a  happy  day  among  your  own 
children  or  those  who  knew  you  a  child. 

'•'  Since  I  knew  what  it  was  to  be  a  man,  this  is  a  pleasure  I 
have  not  known.  I  have  passed  my  days  among  a  parcel  of 
cool,  designing  beings,  and  have  contracted  all  their  suspicious 
manner  in  my  own  behavior.  I  should  actually  be  as  unfit  for 
the  society  of  my  friends  at  home,  as  I  detest  that  which  I  am 
obliged  to  partake  of  here.  I  can  now  neither  partake  of  the 
pleasure  of  a  revel,  nor  contribute  to  raise  its  jollity.  I  can 
neither  laugh  nor  drink ;  have  contracted  a  hesitating,  dis- 
agreeable manner  of  speaking,  and  a  visage  that  looks  ill-nature 
itself ;  in  short,  I  have  thought  myself  into  a  settled  melancholy, 
and  an  utter  disgust  of  all  that  life  brings  with  it.  Whence 
this  romantic  turn  that  all  our  family  are  possessed  with? 
Whence  this  love  for  every  place  and  every  country  but  that  in 
which  we  reside  —  for  every  occupation  but  our  own  ?  this  de- 
sire of  fortune,  and  yet  this  eagerness  to  dissipate  ?  I  perceive, 
my  dear  sir,  that  I  am  at  intervals  for  indulging  this  splenetic 
manner,  and  following  my  own  taste,  regardless  of  yours. 

"  The  reasons  you  have  given  me  for  breeding  up  your  son  a 
scholar  are  judicious  and  convincing ;  I  should,  however,  be 
glad  to  know  for  what  particular  profession  he  is  designed.  If 
he  be  assiduous  and  divested  of  strong  passions  (for  passions  in 
youth  always  lead  to  pleasure),  he  may  do  very  well  in  your 
college ;  for  it  must  be  owned  that  the  industrious  poor  have 
good  encouragement  there,  perhaps  better  than  in  any  other  in 
Europe.  But  if  he  has  ambition,  strong  passions,  and  an  ex- 
quisite sensibility  of  contempt,  do  not  send  him  there,  unless 
you  have  no  other  trade  for  him  but  your  own.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  conceive  how  much  mav  be  done  by  proper  education  at 
home.  A  boy,  for  instance,  who  understands  perfectly  well 
Latin,  French,  arithmetic,  and  the  principles  of  the  civil  law, 
and  can  write  a  fine  hand,  has  an  education  that  may  qualify 
him  for  any  undertaking ;  and  these  parts  of  learning  should 
be  carefully  inculcated,  let  him  be  designed  for  whatever  calling 
he  will. 

"  Above  all  things,  let  him  never  touch  a  romance  or  novel ; 
these  paint  beauty  in  colors  more  charming  than  nature,  and 
describe  happiness  that  man  never  tastes.  How  delusive,  how 
destructive,  are  those  pictures  of  consummate  bliss !  They 
teach  the  youthful  mind  to  sigh  after  beauty  and  happiness  that 
never  existed  ;  to  despise  the  little  good  which  fortune  has  mixed 
in  our  cup,  by  expecting  more  than  she  ever  gave  ;  and,  in  gen- 
eral, take  the  word  of  a  man  who  has  seen  the  world,  and  who 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  79 

has  studied  human  nature  more  by  experience  than  precept; 
take  my  word  for  it,  I  say,  that  books  teach  us  very  little  of  the 
world.  The  greatest  merit  in  a  state  of  poverty  would  only 
serve  to  make  the  possessor  ridiculous  —  may  distress,  but  can- 
not relieve  him.  Frugality,  and  even  avarice,  in  the  lower 
orders  of  mankind,  are  true  ambition.  These  afford  the  only 
ladder  for  the  poor  to  rise  to  preferment.  Teach  then,  my  dear 
sir,  to  your  son,  thrift  and  economy.  Let  his  poor  wander- 
ing uncle's  example  be  placed  before  his  eyes.  I  had  learned 
from  books  to  be  disinterested  and  generous,  before  I  was 
taught  from  experience  the  necessity  of  being  prudent.  I  had 
contracted  the  habits  and  notions  of  a  philosopher,  while  I 
was  exposing  myself  to  the  approaches  of  insidious  cunning ; 
and  often  by  being,  even  with  my  narrow  finances,  charitable  to 
excess,  I  forgot  the  rules  of  justice,  and  placed  myself  in  the 
very  situation  of  the  wretch  who  thanked  me  for  my  bounty. 
When  I  am  in  the  remotest  part  of  the  world,  tell  him  this,  and 
perhaps  he  may  improve  from  my  example.  But  I  find  myself 
again  falling  into  my  gloomy  habits  of  thinking. 

"  My  mother,  I  am  informed,  is  almost  blind  ;  even  though  I 
had  the  utmost  inclination  to  return  home,  under  such  circum- 
stances I  could  not,  for  to  behold  her  in  distress  without  a 
capacity  of  relieving  her  from  it,  would  add  much  to  my 
splenetic  habit.  Your  last  letter  was  much  too  short ;  it 
should  have  answered  some  queries  I  had  made  in  my  former. 
Just  sit  down  as  I  do,  and  write  forward  until  you  have  filled 
all  your  paper.  It  requires  no  thought,  at  least  from  the  ease 
with  which  my  own  sentiments  rise  when  they  are  addressed 
to  you.  For,  believe  me,  my  head  has  no  share  in  all  I  write ; 
my  heart  dictates  the  whole.  Pray  give  my  love  to  Bob  Bry- 
an ton,  and  entreat  him  from  me  not  to  drink.  My  dear  sir, 
give  me  some  account  about  poor  Jenny.1  Yet  her  husband 
loves  her ;  if  so,  she  cannot  be  unhappy. 

"I  know  not  whether  I  should  tell  you  —  yet  why  should  I 
conceal  these  trifles,  or,  indeed,  any  thing  from  you?  There  is 
a  book  of  mine  will  be  published  in  a  few  days :  the  life  of  a 
very  extraordinary  man  ;  no  less  than  the  great  Voltaire.  You 
know  already  by  the  title  that  it  is  no  more  than  a  catch-penny. 
However,  I  spent  but  four  weeks  on  the  whole  performance,  for 
which  I  received  twenty  pounds.  When  published,  I  shall  take 
some  method  of  conveying  it  to  you,  unless  you  may  think  it 


»  His  Bister,  Mrs.  Johnston ;  her  marriage,  like  that  of  Mrs.  Hodson,  waa  private,  but 
in  pecuniary  matters  much  less  fortunaU. 


80  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

dear  of  the  postage,  which  may  amount  to  four  or  five  shillings. 
However,  I  fear  you  will  not  find  an  equivalent  of  amusement. 

"  Your  last  letter,  I  repeat  it,  was  too  short ;  you  should  have 
given  me  your  opinion  of  the  design  of  the  heroicomical  poem 
which  I  sent  you.  You  remember  I  intended  to  introduce  the 
hero  of  the  poem  as  lying  in  a  paltry  alehouse.  You  may  take 
the  following  specimen  of  the  manner,  which  I  flatter  myself 
is  quite  original.  The  room  in  which  he  lies  may  be  described 
somewhat  in  this  way  : 

"  '  The  window,  patched  with  paper,  lent  a  ray 
That  feebly  show'd  the  state  in  which  he  lay; 
The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread, 
The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread; 
The  game  of  goose  was  there  exposed  to  view, 
And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew; 
The  Seasons,  framed  with  listing,  found  a  place, 
And  Prussia's  monarch  show'd  his  lampblack  face. 
The  morn  was  cold  :  he  views  with  keen  desire 
A  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire; 
An  unpaid  reckoning  on  the  frieze  was  scored, 
And  five  crack'd  teacups  dress'd  the  chimney  board.' 

"And  now  imagine,  after  his  soliloquy,  the  landlord  to  make 
his  appearance  in  order  to  dun  him  for  the  reckoning : 

« Not  with  that  face,  so  servile  and  so  gay, 
That  welcomes  every  stranger  that  can  pay : 
With  sulky  eye  he  smoked  the  patient  man, 
Then  pull'd  his  breeches  tight,  and  thus  began,"  etc.1 

"All  this  is  taken,  you  see,  from  nature.  It  is  a  good 
remark  of  Montaigne's,  that  the  wisest  men  often  have  friends 
with  whom  they  do  not  care  how  much  they  play  the  fool. 
Take  my  present  follies  as  instances  of  my  regard.  Poetry  is 
a  much  easier  and  more  agreeable  species  of  composition  than 
prose ;  and  could  a  man  live  by  it,  it  were  not  unpleasant 
employment  to  be  a  poet. '  I  am  resolved  to  leave  no  space, 
though  I  should  fill  it  up  only  by  telling  you,  what  you  very 
well  know  already,  I  mean  that  I  am  your  most  affectionate 
friend  and  brother, 

"OLIVER  GOLDSMITH." 

The  Life  of  Voltaire,  alluded  to  in  the  latter  part  of  the  pre- 
ceding letter,  was  the  literary  job  undertaken  to  satisfy  the 

i  The  projected  poem,  of  which  the  above  were  specimens,  appears  never  to  have  been 
completed. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  81 

demands  of  Griffiths.  It  was  to  have  preceded  a  translation 
of  the  Henriade,  by  Ned  Purdon,  Goldsmith's  old  schoolmate, 
now  a  Grub  Street  writer,  who  starved  rather  than  lived  by  the 
exercise  of  his  pen,  and  often  tasked  Goldsmith's  scanty  means 
to  relieve  his  hunger.  His  miserable  career  was  summed  up  by 
our  poet  in  the  following  lines  written  some  years  after  the  time 
we  are  treating  of,  on  hearing  that  he  had  suddenly  dropped 
dead  in  Smithfield : 

"  Here  lies  poor  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery  freed, 

Who  long  was  a  bookseller's  hack; 
He  led  such  a  damnable  life  in  this  world, 
I  don't  think  he'll  wish  to  come  back." 

The  memoir  and  translation,  though  advertised  to  form  a 
volume,  were  not  published  together ;  but  appeared  separately 
in  a  magazine. 

As  to  the  heroicomical  poem,  also,  cited  in  the  foregoing 
letter,  it  appears  to  have  perished  in  embryo.  Had  it  been 
brought  to  maturity  we  should  have  had  further  traits  of 
autobiography  ;  the  room  already  described  was  probably  his 
own  squalid  quarters  in  Green  Arbor  Court ;  and  in  a  subse- 
quent morsel  of  the  poem  we  have  the  poet  himself,  under  the 
euphonious  name  of  Scroggin  : 

Where  the  Red  Lion  peering  o'er  the  way, 

Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay ; 

Where  Calvert's  butt  and  Parson's  black  champagne 

Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury  Lane: 

There,  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug, 

The  muse  found  Scroggin  stretch'd  beneath  a  rug; 

A  nightcap  deck'd  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 

A  cap  by  night,  a  stocking  all  the  clay !  " 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  this  poetical  conception  was  not 
carried  out ;  like  the  author's  other  writings,  it  might  have 
abounded  with  pictures  of  life  and  touches  of  nature  drawn 
from  his  own  observation  and  experience,  and  mellowed  by  his 
own  humane  and  tolerant  spirit ;  and  might  have  been  a  worthy 
companion  or  rather  contrast  to  his  "  Traveller  "  and  "  Deserted 
Village,"  and  have  remained  in  the  language  a  first-rate  speci- 
men of  the  mock-heroic. 


82  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

PUBLICATION  OF  "  THE  INQUIRY  " ATTACKED  BY  GRIFFITHS*  RE- 
VIEW   KENRICK  THE  LITERARY  ISHMAELITE PERIODICAL  LIT- 
ERATURE—  GOLDSMITH'S  ESSAYS  —  GARRICK  AS  A  MANAGER  — 

SMOLLETT    AND     HIS     SCHEMES CHANGE     OF    LODGINGS — THE 

ROBIN   HOOD    CLUB. 

TOWARD  the  end  of  March,  1759,  the  treatise  on  which  Gold- 
smith had  laid  so  much  stress,  on  which  he  at  one  time  had 
calculated  to  defray  the  expenses  of  his  outfit  to  India,  and  to 
which  he  had  adverted  in  his  correspondence  with  Griffiths, 
made  its  appearance.  It  was  published  by  the  Dodsleys,  and 
entitled  "An  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning 
in  Europe." 

In  the  present  day,  when  the  whole  field  of  contemporary 
literature  is  so  widely  surveyed  and  amply  discussed,  and 
when  the  current  productions  of  every  country  are  constantly 
collated  and  ably  criticised,  a  treatise  like  that  of  Goldsmith 
would  be  considered  as  extremely  limited  and  unsatisfactory ; 
but  at  that  time  it  possessed  novelty  in  its  views  and  wideness 
in  its  scope,  and  being  indued  with  the  peculiar  charm  of  style 
inseparable  from  the  author,  it  commanded  public  attention 
and  a  profitable  sale.  As  it  was  the  most  important  production 
that  had  yet  come  from  Goldsmith's  pen,  he  was  anxious  to 
have  the  credit  of  it ;  yet  it  appeared  without  his  name  on  the 
titlepage.  The  authorship,  however,  was  well  known  through- 
out the  world  of  letters,  and  the  author  had  now  grown  into 
sufficient  literary  importance  to  become  an  object  of  hostility  tc 
the  underlings  of  the  press.  One  of  the  most  virulent  attacks 
upon  him  was  in  a  criticism  on  this  treatise,  and  appeared  in 
the  Monthly  Review,  to  which  he  himself  had  been  recently  a 
contributor.  It  slandered  him  as  a  man  while  it  decried  him 
as  an  author,  and  accused  him,  by  innuendo,  of  "laboring 
under  the  infamy  of  having,  by  the  vilest  and  meanest  actions, 
forfeited  all  pretensions  to  honor  and  honesty,"  and  of  prac- 
tising "  those  acts  which  bring  the  sharper  to  the  cart's  tail  or 
the  pillory." 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  Review  was  owned  by  Griffiths 
the  bookseller,  with  whom  Goldsmith  had  recently  had  a  misun- 
derstanding. The  criticism,  therefore,  was  no  doubt  dictated 
by  the  lingerings  of  resentment ;  and  the  imputations  upon 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  83 

Goldsmith's  character  for  honor  and  honesty,  and  the  vile  and 
mean  actions  hinted  at,  could  only  allude  to  the  unfortunate 
pawning  of  the  clothes.  All  this,  too,  was  after  Griffiths  had 
received  the  affecting  letter  from  Goldsmith,  drawing  a  picture 
of  his  poverty  and  perplexities,  and  after  the  latter  had  made 
him  a  literary  compensation.  Griffiths,  in  fact,  was  sensible 
of  the  falsehood  and  extravagance  of  the  attack,  and  tried  to 
exonerate  himself  by  declaring  that  the  criticism  was  written  by 
a  person  in  his  employ ;  but  we  see  no  difference  in  atrocity 
between  him  who  wields  the  knife  and  him  who  hires  the  cut- 
throat. It  may  be  well,  however,  in  passing,  to  bestow  our 
mite  of  notoriety  upon  the  miscreant  who  launched  the  slander. 
He  deserves  it  for  a  long  course  of  dastardly  and  venomous 
attacks,  not  merely  upon  Goldsmith,  but  upon  most  of  the 
successful  authors  of  the  day.  His  name  was  Ken  rick.  He 
was  originally  a  mechanic,  but,  possessing  some  degree  of 
talent  and  industry,  applied  himself  to  literature  as  a  profes- 
sion. This  he  pui*sued  for  many  years,  and  tried  his  hand  in 
every  department  of  prose  and  poetry ;  he  wrote  plays  and 
satires,  philosophical  tracts,  critical  dissertations,  and  works  on 
philology ;  nothing  from  his  pen  ever  rose  to  first-rate  excel- 
lence, or  gained  him  a  popular  name,  though  he  received  from 
some  university  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws.  Dr.  Johnson 
characterized  his  literary  career  in  one  short  sentence.  "  Sir, 
he  is  one  of  the  many  who  have  made  themselves  public  without 
making  themselves  Jcnown." 

Soured  by  his  own  want  of  success,  jealous  of  the  success  of 
others,  his  natural  irritability  of  temper  increased  by  habits  of  in- 
temperance, he  at  length  abandoned  himself  to  the  practice  of 
reviewing,  and  became  one  of  the  Ishmaelites  of  the  press.  In 
this  his  malignant  bitterness  soon  gave  him  a  notoriety  which 
his  talents  had  never  been  able  to  attain.  We  shall  dismiss  him 
for  the  present  with  the  following  sketch  of  him  by  the  hand  of 
one  of  his  contemporaries : 


'Dreaming  of  genius  which  he  never  had, 
Half  wit,  half  fool,  half  critic,  and  half  mad; 
Seizing,  like  Shirley,  on  the  poet's  lyre, 
With  all  his  rage,  but  not  one  spark  of  fire; 
Eager  for  slaughter,  and  resolved  to  tear 
From  others'  brows  that  wreath  he  must  not  wear — 
Next  Kenrick  came  :  all  furious  and  replete 
With  brandy,  malice,  pertness,  and  conceit; 
Unskill'd  in  classic  lore,  through  envy  blind 
To  all  that's  beauteous,  learned,  or  refined; 


84  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

For  faults  alone  behold  the  savage  prowl, 
With  reason's  offal  glut  his  ravening  soul ; 
Pleased  with  his  prey,  its  inmost  blood  he  drinks, 
And  mumbles,  paws,  and  turns  it  —  till  it  stinks." 

The  British  press  about  this  time  was  extravagantly  fruitful 
of  periodical  publications.  That  "  oldest  inhabitant,"  the  Gen- 
tleman's Magazine,  almost  coeval  with  St.  John's  gate  which 
graced  its  titlepage,  had  long  been  elbowed  by  magazines  and 
reviews  of  all  kinds ;  Johnson's  Rambler  had  introduced  the 
fashion  of  periodical  essays,  which  he  had  followed  up  in  his 
Adventurer  and  Idler.  Imitations  had  sprung  up  on  every 
side,  under  every  variety  of  name ;  until  British  literature  was 
entirely  overrun  by  a  weedy  and  transient  efflorescence.  Many 
of  these  rival  periodicals  choked  each  other  almost  at  the  out- 
set, and  few  of  them  have  escaped  oblivion. 

Goldsmith  wrote  for  some  of  the  most  successful,  such  as 
the  Bee,  the  Busy-Body,  and  the  Lady's  Magazine.  His  es- 
says, though  characterized  by  his  delightful  style,  his  pure, 
benevolent  morality,  and  his  mellow,  unobtrusive  humor,  did 
not  produce  equal  effect  at  first  with  more  garish  writings  of 
infinitely  less  value ;  they  did  not  "strike,"  as  it  is  termed; 
but  they  had  that  rare  and  enduring  merit  which  rises  in  esti- 
mation on  every  perusal.  They  gradually  stole  upon  the  heart 
of  the  public,  were  copied  into  numerous  contemporary  publi- 
cations, and  now  they  are  garnered  up  among  the  choice  pro- 
ductions of  British  literature. 

In  his  Inquiry  into  the  State  of  Polite  Learning,  Goldsmith 
had  given  offence  to  David  Garrick,  at  that  time  the  autocrat 
of  the  Drama,  and  was  doomed  to  experience  its  effect.  A 
clamor  had  been  raised  against  Garrick  for  exercising  a  des- 
potism over  the  stage,  and  bringing  forward  nothing  but  old 
plays  to  the  exclusion  of  original  productions.  "Walpole  joined 
in  this  charge.  "  Garrick,"  said  he,  "  is  treating  the  town  as 
it  deserves  and  likes  to  be  treated  ;  with  scenes,  fireworks,  and 
his  own  writings.  A  good  new  play  I  never  expect  to  see 
more ;  nor  have  seen  since  the  Provoked  Husband,  which 
came  out  when  I  was  at  school."  Goldsmith,  who  was  ex- 
tremely fond  of  the  theatre,  and  felt  the  evils  of  this  system, 
inveighed  in  his  treatise  against  the  wrongs  experienced  by 
authors  at  the  hands  of  managers.  "Our  poet's  perform- 
ance," said  he,  "  must  undergo  a  process  truly  chemical  before 
it  is  presented  to  the  public.  It  must  be  tried  in  the  manager's 
fire  ;  strained  through  a  licenser,  suffer  from  repeated  correc- 
tions, till  it  may  be  a  mere  caput  mortuum  when  it  arrives 


DAVID    GARRICK. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  85 

before  the  public."  Again  :  "  Getting  a  play  on  even  in  three 
or  four  years  is  a  privilege  reserved  only  for  the  happy  few 
who  have  the  arts  of  courting  the  manager  as  well  as  the  muse  ; 
who  have  adulation  to  please  his  vanity,  powerful  patrons  to 
support  their  merit,  or  money  to  indemnify  disappointment. 
Our  Saxon  ancestors  had  but  one  name  for  a  wit  and  a  witch. 
I  will  not  dispute  the  propriety  of  uniting  those  characters 
then ;  but  the  man  who  under  present  discouragements  ven- 
tures to  write  for  the  stage,  whatever  claim  he  may  have  to 
the  appellation  of  a  wit,  at  least  has  no  right  to  be  called  a 
conjurer."  But  a  passage  perhaps  which  touched  more  sensi- 
bly than  all  the  rest  on  the  sensibilities  of  Garrick,  was  the 
following. 

' '  I  have  no  particular  spleen  against  the  fellow  who  sweeps 
the  stage  with  the  besom,  or  the  hero  who  brushes  it  with  his 
tram.  It  were  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me  whether  our 
heroines  are  in  keeping,  or  our  candle-snuffers  burn  their 
fingers,  did  not  such  make  a  great  part  of  public  care  and 
polite  conversation.  Our  actors  assume  all  that  state  off  the 
stage  which  they  do  on  it ;  and,  to  use  an  expression  borrowed 
from  the  green-room,  every  one  is  up  in  his  part.  I  am  sorry 
to  say  it,  they  seem  to  forget  their  real  characters." 

These  strictures  were  considered  by  Garrick  as  intended  for 
himself,  and  they  were  rankling  in  his  mind  when  Goldsmith 
waited  upon  him  and  solicited  his  vote  for  the  vacant  secre- 
taryship of  the  Society  of  Arts,  of  which  the  manager  was  a 
member.  Garrick,  puffed  up  by  his  dramatic  renown  and  his 
intimacy  with  the  great,  and  knowing  Goldsmith  only  by  his 
budding  reputation,  may  not  have  considered  him  of  sufficient 
importance  to  be  conciliated.  In  reply  to  his  solicitations,  he 
observed  that  he  could  hardly  expect  his  friendly  exertions 
after  the  unprovoked  attack  he  had  made  upon  his  manage- 
ment. Goldsmith  replied  that  he  had  indulged  in  no  person- 
alities, and  had  only  spoken  what  he  believed  to  be  the  truth. 
He  made  no  further  apology  nor  application ;  failed  to  get  the 
appointment,  and  considered  Garrick  his  enemy.  In  the  sec- 
ond edition  of  his  treatise  he  expunged  or  modified  the  passages 
which  had  given  the  manager  offence ;  but  though  the  author 
and  actor  became  intimate  in  after  years,  this  false  step  at  the 
outset  of  their  intercourse  was  never  forgotten. 

About  this  time  Goldsmith  engaged  with  Dr.  Smollett,  who 
was  about  to  launch  the  British  Magazine.  Smollett  was  a 
complete  schemer  and  speculator  in  literature,  and  intent  upon 
enterprises  that  had  money  rather  than  reputation  in  view. 


86  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Goldsmith  has  a  good-humored  hit  at  this  propensity  in  one 
of  his  papers  in  the  Bee,  in  which  he  represents  Johnson, 
Hume,  and  others  taking  seats  in  the  stage-coach  bound  for 
Fame,  while  Smollett  prefers  that  destined  for  Riches. 

Another  prominent  employer  of  Goldsmith  was  Mr.  John 
Newbery,  who  engaged  him  to  contribute  occasional  essays  to 
a  newspaper  entitled  the  Public  Ledger,  which  made  its  first 
appearance  on  the  12th  of  January,  1760.  His  most  valuable 
and  characteristic  contributions  to  this  paper  were  his  Chinese 
Letters,  subsequently  modified  into  the  Citizen  of  the  World. 
These  lucubrations  attracted  general  attention  ;  they  were  re- 
printed in  the  various  periodical  publications  of  the  day,  and 
met  with  great  applause.  The  name  of  the  author,  however, 
was  as  yet  but  little  known. 

Being  now  easier  in  circumstances,  and  in  the  receipt  of  fre- 
quent sums  from  the  booksellers,  Goldsmith,  about  the  middle 
of  1760,  emerged  from  his  dismal  abode  in  Green  Arbor  Court, 
and  took  respectable  apartments  in  Wine-Office  Court,  Fleet 
Street. 

Still  he  continued  to  look  back  with  considerate  benevolence 
to  the  poor  hostess,  whose  necessities  he  had  relieved  by  pawn- 
ing his  gala  coat,  for  we  are  told  that  "  he  often  supplied  her 
with  food  from  his  own  table,  and  visited  her  frequently  with 
the  sole  purpose  to  be  kind  to  her." 

He  now  became  a  member  of  a  debating  club,  called  the 
Robin  Hood,  which  used  to  meet  near  Temple  Bar,  and  in 
which  Burke,  while  yet  a  Temple  student,  had  first  tried  his 
powers.  Goldsmith  spoke  here  occasionally,  and  is  recorded 
in  the  Robin  Hood  archives  as  "  a  candid  disputant,  with  a 
clear  head  and  an  honest  heart,  though  coming  but  seldom  to 
the  society."  His  relish  was  for  clubs  of  a  more  social,  jovial 
nature,  and  he  was  never  fond  of  argument.  An  amusing 
anecdote  is  told  of  his  first  introduction  to  the  club,  by  Samuel 
Derrick,  an  Irish  acquaintance  of  some  humor.  On  entering, 
Goldsmith  was  struck  with  the  self-important  appearance  of 
the  chairman  ensconced  in  a  large  gilt  chair.  "  This,"  said  he, 
"  must  be  the  Lord  Chancellor  at  least."  "  No,  no,"  replied 
Derrick,  "  he's  only  master  of  the  rolls."  The  chairman  was 
a  baker. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  87 


CHAPTER  XII. 

NEW    LODGINGS VISITS      OF      CEREMONY HANGERS-ON PILK- 

INGTON   AND   THE   WHITE  MOUSE — INTRODUCTION  TO   DR.    JOHN- 
SON   DAVIES   AND    HIS    BOOKSHOP PRETTY    MRS.    DA  VIES  — 

FOOTE   AND   HIS   PROJECTS CRITICISM    OF   THE   CUDGEL. 

IN  his  new  lodgings  in  Wine-Office  Court,  Goldsmith  began 
to  receive  visits  of  ceremony,  and  to  entertain  his  literary 
friends.  Among  the  latter  he  now  numbered  several  names  of 
note,  such  as  Guthrie,  Murphy,  Christopher  Smart,  and  Bick- 
erstaff.  He  had  also  a  numerous  class  of  hangers-on,  the 
small-fry  of  literature ;  who,  knowing  his  almost  utter  incapa- 
city to  refuse  a  pecuniary  request,  were  apt,  now  that  he  was 
considered  flush,  to  levy  continual  taxes  upon  his  purse. 

Among  others,  one  Pilkington,  an  old  college  acquaintance, 
but  now  a  shifting  adventurer,  duped  him  in  the  most  ludicrous 
manner.  He  called  on  him  with  a  face  full  of  perplexity.  A 
lady  of  the  first  rank  having  an  extraordinary  fancy  for  curious 
animals,  for  which  she  was  willing  to  give  enormous  sums,  he 
had  procured  a  couple  of  white  mice  to  be  forwarded  to  her 
from  India.  They  were  actually  on  board  of  a  ship  in  the  river. 
Her  grace  had  been  apprised  of  their  arrival,  and  was  all  im- 
patience to  see  them.  Unfortunately,  he  had  no  cage  to  put 
them  in,  nor  clothes  to  appear  in  before  a  lady  of  her  rank. 
Two  guineas  would  be  sufficient  for  his  purpose,  but  where  were 
two  guineas  to  be  procured  ! 

The  simple  heart  of  Goldsmith  was  touched ;  but,  alas  !  he 
had  but  half  a  guinea  in  his  pocket.  It  was  unfortunate  ;  but 
after  a  pause  his  friend  suggested,  with  some  hesitation,  "  that 
money  might  be  raised  upon  his  watch ;  it  would  but  be  the 
loan  of  a  few  hours."  So  said,  so  done;  the  watch  was  de- 
livered to  the  worthy  Mr.  Pilkington  to  be  pledged  at  a  neigh- 
boring pawnbroker's,  but  nothing  farther  was  ever  seen  of  him, 
the  watch,  or  the  white  mice.  The  next  that  Goldsmith  heard 
of  the  poor  shifting  scapegrace,  he  was  on  his  death-bed,  starv- 
ing with  want,  upon  which,  forgetting  or  forgiving  the  trick  he 
had  played  upon  him,  he  seat  him  a  guinea.  Indeed,  he  used 
often  to  relate  with  great  humor  the  foregoing  anecdote  of  his 
credulity,  and  was  ultimately  in  some  degree  indemnified  by  its 
suggesting  to  him  the  amusing  little  story  of  Prince  Bonbennin 
and  the  White  Mouse  in  the  Citizen  of  the  World. 


88  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

In  this  year,  Goldsmith  became  personally  acquainted  with 
Dr.  Johnson,  toward  whom  he  was  drawn  by  strong  sympathies, 
though  their  natures  were  widely  different.  Both  had  struggled 
from  early  life  with  poverty,  but  had  struggled  in  different  ways. 
Goldsmith,  buoyant,  heedless,  sanguine,  tolerant  of  evils  and 
easily  pleased,  had  shifted  along  by  any  temporary  expedient  ,• 
cast  down  at  every  turn,  but  rising  again  with  indomitable  good- 
humor,  and  still  carried  forward  by  his  talent  at  hoping.  John- 
son, melancholy,  and  hypochondriacal,  and  prone  to  apprehend 
the  worst,  yet  sternly  resolute  to  battle  with  and  conquer  it,  had 
made  his  way  doggedly  and  gloomily,  but  with  a  noble  principle 
of  self-reliance  and  a  disregard  of  foreign  aid.  Both  had  been 
irregular  at  college,  —  Goldsmith,  as  we  have  shown,  from  the 
levity  of  his  nature  and  his  social  and  convivial  habits  ;  Johnson, 
from  his  acerbity  and  gloom.  When,  in  after  life,  the  latter 
heard  himself  spoken  of  as  gay  and  frolicsome  at  college,  be- 
cause he  had  joined  in  some  riotous  excesses  there,  "  Ah,  sir !  " 
replied  he,  "I  was  mad  and  violent.  It  was  bitterness  which 
they  mistook  for  frolic.  /  was  miserably  poor,  and  I  thought  to 
fight  my  way  by  my  literature  and  my  wit.  So  I  disregarded  all 
power  and  all  authority." 

Goldsmith's  poverty  was  never  accompanied  by  bitterness ; 
but  neither  was  it  accompanied  by  the  guardian  pride  which 
kept  Johnson  from  falling  into  the  degrading  shifts  of  poverty. 
Goldsmith  had  an  unfortunate  facility  at  borrowing,  and  help- 
ing himself  along  by  the  contributions  of  his  friends  ;  no  doubt 
trusting,  in  his  hopeful  way,  of  one  day  making  retribution. 
Johnson  never  hoped,  and  therefore  never  borrowed.  In  his 
sternest  trials  he  proudly  bore  the  ills  he  could  not  master.  In 
his  youth,  when  some  unknown  friend,  seeing  his  shoes  com- 
pletely worn  out,  left  a  new  pair  at  his  chamber  door,  he  dis- 
dained to  accept  the  boon,  and  threw  them  away. 

Though  like  Goldsmith  an  immethodical  student,  he  had 
imbibed  deeper  draughts  of  knowledge,  and  made  himself  a  ripei 
scholar.  While  Goldsmith's  happy  constitution  and  genial  hu- 
mors carried  him  abroad  into  sunshine  and  enjoyment,  Johnson's 
physical  infirmities  and  mental  gloom  drove  him  upon  himself  ; 
to  the  resources  of  reading  and  meditation ;  threw  a  deeper 
though  darker  enthusiasm  into  his  mind,  and  stored  a  retentive 
memory  with  all  kinds  of  knowledge. 

After  several  years  of  youth  passed  in  the  country  as  usher, 
teacher,  and  an  occasional  writer  for  the  press,  Johnson,  when 
twenty-eight  years  of  age,  came  up  to  London  with  a  half-writ- 
ten tragedy  in  his  pocket ;  and  David  Garrick,  late  his  pupil, 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  89 

and  several  years  his  junior,  as  a  companion,  both  poor  and 
penniless,  both,  like  Goldsmith,  seeking  their  fortune  in  the 
metropolis.  "  We  rode  and  tied,"  said  Garrick  sportively  in 
after  years  of  prosperity,  when  he  spoke  of  their  humble  way- 
faring. "  I  came  to  London,"  said  Johnson,  "  with  twopence 
halfpenny  in  my  pocket."  "  Eh,  what's  that  you  say?  "  cried 
Garrick,  "  with  twopence  halfpenny  in  your  pocket?  "  "  Why, 
yes;  I  came  with  twopence  halfpenny  in  my  pocket,  and  thou, 
Davy,  with  but  three  halfpence  in  thine."  Nor  was  there  much 
exaggeration  in  the  picture  ;  for  so  poor  were  they  in  purse  and 
credit,  that  after  their  arrival  they  had,  with  difficulty,  raised 
five  pounds,  by  giving  their  joint  note  to  a  bookseller  in  the 
Strand. 

Many,  many  years  had  Johnson  gone  on  obscurely  in  London, 
"  fighting  his  way  by  his  literature  and  his  wit ;  "  enduring  all 
the  hardships  and  miseries  of  a  Grub  Street  writer ;  so  destitute 
at  one  time,  that  he  and  Savage  the  poet  had  walked  all  night 
about  St.  James's  Square,  both  too  poor  to  pay  for  a  night's 
lodging,  yet  both  full  of  poetry  and  patriotism,  and  determined 
to  stand  by  their  country ;  so  shabby  in  dress  at  another  time, 
that  when  he  dined  at  Cave's,  his  bookseller,  when  there  was 
prosperous  company,  he  could  not  make  his  appearance  at  table, 
but  had  his  dinner  handed  to  him  behind  a  screen. 

Yet  through  all  the  long  and  dreary  struggle,  often  diseased 
in  mind  as  well  as  in  body,  he  had  been  resolutely  self-depend- 
ent, and  proudly  self-respectful ;  he  had  fulfilled  his  college 
vow,  he  had  "  fought  his  way  by  his  literature  and  his  wit." 
His  "  Rambler  "  and  "  Idler  "  had  made  him  the  great  moralist 
of  the  age,  and  his  "  Dictionary  and  History  of  the  English 
Language,"  that  stupendous  monument  of  individual  labor,  had 
excited  the  admiration  of  the  learned  world.  He  was  now  at 
the  head  of  intellectual  society  ;  and  had  become  as  distinguished 
by  his  conversational  as  his  literary  powers.  He  had  become 
as  much  an  autocrat  in  his  sphere  as  his  fellow-wayfarer  and 
adventurer  Garrick  had  become  of  the  stage,  and  had  been 
humorously  dubbed  by  Smollett,  "The  Great  Cham  of  Litera- 
ture." 

Such  was  Dr.  Johnson,  when  on  the  31st  of  May,  1761,  he 
was  to  make  his  appearance  as  a  guest  at  a  literary  supper  given 
by  Goldsmith,  to  a  numerous  party  at  his  new  lodgings  in  Wine- 
Office  Court.  It  was  the  opening  of  their  acquaintance.  Johnson 
had  felt  and  acknowledged  the  merit  of  Goldsmith  as  an  author, 
and  been  pleased  by  the  honorable  mention  made  of  himself  in 
the  Bee  and  the  "  Chinese  Letters."  Dr.  Percy  called  upou 


90  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

Johnson  to  take  him  to  Goldsmith's  lodgings  ;  he  found  Johnson 
arrayed  with  unusual  care  in  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  a  new  hat, 
and  a  well-powdered  wig ;  and  could  not  but  notice  his  uncom- 
mon spruceness.  "Why,  sir,"  replied  Johnson,  "I  hear  that 
Goldsmith,  who  is  a  very  great  sloven,  justifies  his  disregard  of 
cleanliness  and  decency  by  quoting  my  practice,  and  I  am  de- 
sirous this  night  to  show  him  a  better  example." 

The  acquaintance  thus  commenced  ripened  into  intimacy  in 
the  course  of  frequent  meetings  at  the  shop  of  Davies,  the  book- 
seller, in  Russell  Street,  Covent  Garden.  As  this  was  one  of 
the  great  literary  gossiping  places  of  the  day,  especially  to  the  cir- 
cle over  which  Johnson  presided,  it  is  worthy  of  some  specifica- 
tion. Mr.  Thomas  Davies,  noted  in  after  times  as  the  biographer 
of  Garrick,  had  originally  been  on  the  stage,  and  though  a  small 
man  had  enacted  tyrannical  tragedy,  with  a  pomp  and  mag- 
niloquence beyond  his  size,  if  we  may  trust  the  description  given 
of  him  by  Churchill  in  the  Rosciad  : 

"  Statesman  all  over  —  in  plots  famous  grown, 
He  mouths  a  sentence  as  curs  mouth,  a  bone." 

This  unlucky  sentence  is  said  to  have  crippled  him  in  the  midst 
of  his  tragic  career,  and  ultimately  to  have  driven  him  from  the 
stage.  He  carried  into  the  bookselling  craft  somewhat  of  the 
grandiose  manner  of  the  stage,  and  was  prone  to  be  mouthy 
and  magniloquent. 

Churchill  had  intimated,  that  while  on  the  stage  he  was  more 
noted  for  his  pretty  wife  than  his  good  acting : 

"With  him  came  mighty  Davies;  on  my  life, 
That  fellow  has  a  very  pretty  wife." 

"Pretty  Mrs.  Davies"  continued  to  be  the  loadstar  of  his 
fortunes.  Her  tea-table  became  almost  as  much  a  literary 
lounge  as  her  husband's  shop.  She  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of 
the  Ursa  Major  of  literature  by  her  winning  ways,  as  she  poured 
out  for  him  cups  without  stint  of  his  favorite  beverage.  In- 
deed it  is  suggested  that  she  was  one  leading  cause  of  his  habit- 
ual resort  to  this  literary  haunt.  Others  were  drawn  thither  for 
the  sake  of  Johnson's  conversation,  and  thus  it  became  a  resort 
of  many  of  the  notorieties  of  the  day.  Here  might  occasionally 
be  seen  Bennet  Langton,  George  Steevens,  Dr.  Percy,  celebrated 
for  his  ancient  ballads,  and  sometimes  Warburton  in  prelatic 
state.  Garrick  resorted  to  it  for  a  time,  but  soon  grew  shy  and 


OLIVER  GOLDSlflTH.  91 

suspicious,  declaring  that  most  of  the  authors  who  frequented 
Mr.  Davies's  shop  went  merely  to  abuse  him. 

Foote,  the  Aristophanes  of  the  day,  was  a  frequent  visitor ; 
his  broad  face  beaming  with  fun  and  waggery,  and  his  satirical 
eye  ever  on  the  lookout  for  characters  and  incidents  for  his 
farces.  He  was  struck  with  the  odd  habits  and  appearance  of 
Johnson  and  Goldsmith,  now  so  often  brought  together  in 
Davies's  shop.  He  was  about  to  put  on  the  stage  a  farce  called 
The  Orators,  intended  as  a  hit  at  the  Robin  Hood  debating  club, 
and  resolved  to  show  up  the  two  doctors  in  it  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  the  town. 

"What  is  the  common  price  of  an  oak  stick,  sir?"  said 
Johnson  to  Davies.  "  Sixpence,"  was  the  reply.  "  Why,  theii, 
sir,  give  me  leave  to  send  your  servant  to  purchase  a  shilling 
one.  I'll  have  a  double  quantity ;  for  I  am  told  Foote  means 
to  take  me  off,  as  he  calls  it,  and  I  am  determined  the  fellow 
shall  not  do  it  with  impunity." 

Foote  had  no  disposition  to  undergo  the  criticism  of  the  cud- 
gel wielded  by  such  potent  hands,  so  the  farce  of  The  Orators 
appeared  without  the  caricatures  of  the  lexicographer  and  the 
essayist. 


CHAPTER  XHI. 

ORIENTAL  PROJECTS  —  LITERARY  JOBS  —  THE  CHEROKEE   CHIEFS 

MERRY    ISLINGTON    AND    THE    WHITE    CONDUIT   HOUSE LETTERS 

ON  THE   HISTORY  OF   ENGLAND  —  JAMES    BOSWELL DINNER   OF 

DAVIES  —  ANECDOTES    OF   JOHNSON   AND   GOLDSMITH. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  his  growing  success,  Goldsmith  continued 
to  consider  literature  a  mere  makeshift,  and  his  vagrant  imagina- 
tion teemed  with  schemes  and  plans  of  a  grand  but  indefinite 
nature.  One  was  for  visiting  the  East  and  exploring  the  in- 
terior of  Asia.  He  had,  as  has  been  before  observed,  a  vague 
notion  that  valuable  discoveries  were  to  be  made  there,  and  many 
useful  inventions  in  the  arts  brought  back  to  the  stock  of 
European  knowledge.  "Thus,  in  Siberian  Tartary,"  observes 
he  in  one  of  his  writings,  "  the  natives  extract  a  strong  spirit 
from  milk,  which  is  a  secret  probably  unknown  to  the  chem- 
ists of  Europe.  In  the  most  savage  parts  of  India  they  are 
possessed  of  the  secret  of  dyeing  vegetable  substances  scarlet, 
and  that  of  i-efiuing  lead  into  a  metal  which,  for  hardness  and 
color,  is  little  inferior  to  silver." 


92  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Goldsmith  adds  a  description  of  the  kind  of  person  suited  to 
such  an  enterprise,  in  which  he  evidently  had  himself  in  view. 

"He  should  be  a  man  of  philosophical  turn,  one  apt  to 
deduce  consequences  of  general  utility  from  particular  occur- 
rences ;  neither  swoln  with  pride,  nor  hardened  by  prejudice ; 
neither  wedded  to  one  particular  system,  nor  instructed  only 
in  one  particular  science ;  neither  wholly  a  botanist,  nor  quite 
an  antiquarian ;  his  min'd  should  be  tinctured  with  miscellane- 
ous knowledge,  and  his  manners  humanized  by  an  intercourse 
with  men.  He  should  be  in  some  measure  an  enthusiast  to 
the  design ;  fond  of  travelling,  from  a  rapid  imagination  and 
an  innate  love  of  change ;  furnished  with  a  body  capable  of 
sustaining  every  fatigue,  and  a  heart  not  easily  terrified  at 
danger. ' ' 

In  1761,  when  Lord  Bute  became  prime  minister  on  the 
accession  of  George  the  Third,  Goldsmith  drew  up  a  memorial 
on  the  subject,  suggesting  the  advantages  to  be  derived  from 
a  mission  to  those  countries  solely  for  useful  and  scientific 
purposes ;  and,  the  better  to  insure  success,  he  preceded  his 
application  to  the  government  by  an  ingenious  essay  to  the 
same  effect  in  the  Public  Ledger. 

His  memorial  and  his  essay  were  fruitless,  his  project  most 
probably  being  deemed  the  dream  of  a  visionary.  Still  it 
continued  to  haunt  his  mind,  and  he  would  often  talk  of  making 
an  expedition  to  Aleppo  some  time  or  other,  when  his  means 
were  greater,  to  inquire  into  the  arts  peculiar  to  the  East,  and 
to  bring  home  such  as  might  be  valuable.  Johnson,  who  knew 
how  little  poor  Goldsmith  was  fitted  by  scientific  lore  for  this 
favorite  scheme  of  his  fancy,  scoffed  at  the  project  when  it 
was  mentioned  to  him.  "Of  all  men,"  said  he,  "Goldsmith 
is  the  most  unfit  to  go  out  upon  such  an  inquiry,  for  he  is  utterly 
ignorant  of  such  arts  as  we  already  possess,  and,  consequently, 
could  not  know  what  would  be  accessions  to  our  present  stock 
of  mechanical  knowledge.  Sir,  he  would  bring  home  a  grind- 
ing barrow,  which  you  see  in  every  street  in  London,  and 
think  that  he  had  furnished  a  wonderful  improvement." 

His  connection  with  Newbery  the  bookseller  now  led  him 
into  a  variety  of  temporary  jobs,  such  as  a  pamphlet  on  the 
Cock-lane  Ghost,  a  Life  of  Beau  Nash,  the  famous  Master  of 
Ceremonies  at  Bath,  etc. ;  one  of  the  best  things  for  his  fame, 
however,  was  the  remodelling  and  republication  of  his  Chinese 
Letters  under  the  title  of  "  The  Citizen  of  the  World,"  a  work 
which  has  long  since  taken  its  merited  stand  among  the  classics 
of  the  English  language-  "  Few  works,"  it  has  been  observed 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  93 

by  one  of  his  biographers,  "  exhibit  a  nicer  perception,  or  more 
delicate  delineation  of  life  and  manners.  Wit,  humor,  and  sen- 
timent pervade  every  page ;  the  vices  and  follies  of  the  day 
are  touched  with  the  most  playful  and  diverting  satire ;  and 
English  characteristics,  in  endless  variety,  are  hit  off  with  the 
pencil  of  a  master." 

In  seeking  materials  for  his  varied  views  of  life,  he  often 
mingled  in  strange  scenes  and  got  involved  in  whimsical  situa- 
tions. In  the  summer  of  1762  he  was  one  of  the  thousands 
who  went  to  see  the  Cherokee  chiefs,  whom  he  mentions  in 
one  of  his  writings.  The  Indians  made  their  appearance  in 
grand  costume,  hideously  painted  and  besmeared.  In  the 
course  of  the  visit  Goldsmith  made  one  of  the  chiefs  a  present, 
who,  in  the  ecstasy  of  his  gratitude,  gave  him  an  embrace  that 
left  his  face  well  bedaubed  with  oil  and  red  ochre. 

Toward  the  close  of  1762  he  removed  to  "  merry  Islington," 
then  a  country  village,  though  now  swallowed  up  in  omnivorous 
London.  He  went  there  for  the  benefit  of  country  air,  his 
health  being  injured  by  literary  application  and  confinement, 
and  to  be  near  his  chief  employer,  Mr.  Newbery,  who  resided 
in  the  Canonbury  House.  In  this  neighborhood  he  used  to 
take  his  solitary  rambles,  sometimes  extending  his  walks  to  the 
gardens  of  the  "  White  Conduit  House,"  so  famous  among  the 
essayists  of  the  last  century.  While  strolling  one  day  in  these 
gardens,  he  met  three  females  of  the  family  of  a  respectable 
tradesman  to  whom  he  was  under  some  obligation.  With  his 
prompt  disposition  to  oblige,  he  conducted  them  about  the  gar- 
den, treated  them  to  tea,  and  ran  up  a  bill  in  the  most  open- 
handed  manner  imaginable ;  it  was  only  when  he  came  to  pay 
that  he  found  himself  in  one  of  his  old  dilemmas  —  he  had  not 
the  wherewithal  in  his  pocket.  A  scene  of  perplexity  now  took 
place  between  him  and  the  waiter,  in  the  midst  of  which  came 
up  some  of  his  acquaintances,  in  whose  eyes  he  wished  to  stand 
particularly  well.  This  completed  his  mortification.  There  was 
no  concealing  the  awkwardness  of  his  position.  The  sneers 
of  the  waiter  revealed  it.  His  acquaintances  amused  them- 
selves for  some  time  at  his  expense,  professing  their  inability  to 
relieve  him.  When,  however,  they  had  enjoyed  their  banter, 
the  waiter  was  paid,  and  poor  Goldsmith  enabled  to  convoy  off 
the  ladies  with  flying  colors. 

Among  the  various  productions  thrown  off  by  him  for  the 
booksellers  during  this  growing  period  of  his  reputation,  was  a 
small  work  in  two  volumes,  entitled  "  The  History  of  England, 
in  a  series  of  Letters  from  a  Nobleman  to  his  Son."  It  was 


94  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

digested  from  Hume,  Rapin,  Carte,  and  Kennet.  These  au- 
thors he  would  read  in  the  morning ;  make  a  few  notes ; 
ramble  with  a  friend  into  the  country  about  the  skirts  of 
"  merry  Islington  ;  "  return  to  a  temperate  dinner  and  cheerful 
evening  ;  and,  before  going  to  bed,  write  off  what  had  arranged 
itself  in  his  head  from  the  studies  of  the  morning.  In  this 
way  he  took  a  more  general  view  of  the  subject,  and  wrote  in 
a  more  free  and  fluent  style  than  if  he  had  been  mousing  all 
the  time  among  authorities.  The  work,  like  many  others 
written  by  him  in  the  earlier  part  of  his  literary  career,  was 
anonymous.  Some  attributed  it  to  Lord  Chesterfield,  others 
to  Lord  Orrery,  and  others  to  Lord  Lyttelton.  The  latter 
seemed  pleased  to  be  the  putative  father,  and  never  disowned 
the  bantling  thus  laid  at  his  door ;  and  well  might  he  have 
been  proud  to  be  considered  capable  of  producing  what  has 
been  well  pronounced  "  the  most  finished  and  elegant  sum- 
mary of  English  history  in  the  same  compass  that  has  been  or 
is  likely  to  be  written." 

The  reputation  of  Goldsmith,  it  will  be  perceived,  grew 
slowly ;  he  was  known  and  estimated  by  a  few  ;  but  he  had 
not  those  brilliant  though  fallacious  qualities  which  flash  upon 
the  public,  and  excite  loud  but  transient  applause.  His  works 
were  more  read  than  cited ;  and  the  charm  of  style  for  which 
he  was  especially  noted,  was  more  apt  to  be  felt  than  talked 
about.  He  used  often  to  repine,  in  a  half-humorous,  half-queru- 
lous manner,  at  his  tardiness  in  gaining  the  laurels  which  he 
felt  to  be  his  due.  "The  public,"  he  would  exclaim,  "will 
never  do  me  justice ;  whenever  I  write  any  thing,  they  make 
a  point  to  know  nothing  about  it." 

About  the  beginning  of  1763  he  became  acquainted  with  Bos- 
well,  whose  literary  gossipings  were  destined  to  have  a  delete- 
rious effect  upon  his  reputation.  Boswell  was  at  that  time  a 
young  man,  light,  buoyant,  pushing,  and  presumptuous.  He 
had  a  morbid  passion  for  mingling  in  the  society  of  men  noted 
for  wit  and  learning,  and  had  just  arrived  from  Scotland,  bent 
upon  making  his  way  into  the  literary  circles  of  the  metropo- 
lis. An  intimacy  with  Dr.  Johnson,  the  great  literary  lumi- 
nary of  the  day,  was  the  crowning  object  of  his  aspiring  and 
somewhat  ludicrous  ambition.  He  expected  to  meet  him  at  a 
dinner  to  which  he  was  invited  at  Davies  the  bookseller's,  but 
was  disappointed.  Goldsmith  was  present,  but  he  was  not  as 
yet  sufficiently  renowned  to  excite  the  reverence  of  Boswell. 
"At  this  time,"  says  he  in  his  notes,  "I  think  he  had  pub- 
lished nothing  with  his  name,  though  it  was  pretty  generally 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  95 

understood  that  one  Dr.  Goldsmith  was  the  author  of  *  An 
Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe,' 
and  of  '  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  a  series  of  letters  sup- 
posed to  be  written  from  London  by  a  Chinese." 

A  conversation  took  place  at  table  between  Goldsmith  and 
Mr.  Robert  Dodsley,  compiler  of  the  well-known  collection  of 
modern  poetry,  as  to  the  merits  of  the  current  poetry  of  the 
day.  Goldsmith  declared  there  was  none  of  superior  merit. 
Dodsley  cited  his  own  collection  in  proof  of  the  contrary.  "  It 
is  true,"  said  he,  "  we  can  boast  of  no  palaces  nowadays,  like 
Dryden's  Ode  to  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  but  we  have  villages  com- 
posed of  very  pretty  houses."  Goldsmith,  however,  maintained 
that  there  was  nothing  above  mediocrity,  an  opinion  in  which 
Johnson,  to  whom  it  was  repeated,  concurred,  and  with  reason, 
for  the  era  was  one  of  the  dead  levels  of  British  poetry. 

Boswell  has  made  no  note  of  this  conversation  ;  he  was  a 
Unitarian  in  his  literary  devotion,  and  disposed  to  worship  none 
but  Johnson.  Little  Davies  endeavored  to  console  him  for  his 
disappointment,  and  to  stay  the  stomach  of  his  curiosity,  by 
giving  him  imitations  of  the  great  lexicographer  ;  mouthing  his 
words,  rolling  his  head,  and  assuming  as  ponderous  a  manner 
as  his  petty  person  would  permit.  Boswell  was  shortly  after- 
ward made  happy  by  an  introduction  to  Johnson,  of  whom  he 
became  the  obsequious  satellite.  From  him  he  likewise  im- 
bibed a  more  favorable  opinion  of  Goldsmith's  merits,  though 
he  was  fain  to  consider  them  derived  in  a  great  measure  from 
his  Magnus  Apollo.  "  He  had  sagacity  enough,"  says  he,  "  to 
cultivate  assiduously  the  acquaintance  of  Johnson,  and  his 
faculties  were  gradually  enlarged  by  the  contemplation  of  such 
a  model.  To  me  and  many  others  it  appeared  that  he  studi- 
ously copied  the  manner  of  Johnson,  though,  indeed,  upon  a 
smaller  scale."  Soon  another  occasion  he  calls  him  "one  of 
the  brightest  ornaments  of  the  Johnsonian  school."  "His 
respectful  attachment  to  Johnson,"  adds  he,  "  was  then  at  its 
height ;  for  his  own  literary  reputation  had  not  yet  distin- 
guished him  so  much  as  to  excite  a  vain  desire  of  competition 
with  his  great  master." 

What  beautiful  instances  does  the  garrulous  Boswell  give  of 
the  goodness  of  heart  of  Johnson,  and  the  passing  homage  to  it 
by  Goldsmith.  They  were  speaking  of  a  Mr.  Levett,  long  an 
inmate  of  Johnson's  house  and  a  dependant  on  his  bounty  ;  but 
who,  Boswell  thought,  must  be  an  irksome  charge  upon  him. 
"He  is  poor  and  honest,"  said  Goldsmith,  "  which  is  recom- 
mendation enough  to  Johnson." 


96  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

Boswell  mentioned  another  person  of  a  very  bad  character, 
and  wondered  at  Johnson's  kindness  to  him.  "He  is  now  be- 
come miserable,"  said  Goldsmith,  "and  that  insures  the  protec- 
tion of  Johnson."  Encomiums  like  these  speak  almost  as  much 
for  the  heart  of  him  who  praises  as  of  him  who  is  praised. 

Subsequently,  when  Boswell  had  become  more  intense  in  his 
literary  idolatry,  he  affected  to  undervalue  Goldsmith,  and  a 
lurking  hostility  to  him  is  discernible  throughout  his  writings, 
which  some  have  attributed  to  a  silly  spirit  of  jealousy  of  the 
superior  esteem  evinced  for  the  poet  by  Dr.  Johnson.  AVe 
have  a  gleam  of  this  in  his  account  of  the  first  evening  he  spent 
in  company  with  those  two  eminent  authors  at  their  famous 
resort,  the  Mitre  Tavern,  in  Fleet  Street.  This  took  place  on 
the  1st  of  July,  1763.  The  trio  supped  together,  and  passed 
some  time  in  literary  conversation.  On  quitting  the  tavern, 
Johnson,  who  had  now  been  sociably  acquainted  with  Gold- 
smith for  two  years,  and  knew  his  merits,  took  him  with  him 
to  drink  tea  with  his  blind  pensioner,  Miss  Williams,  a  high 
privilege  among  his  intimates  and  admirers.  To  Boswell,  a 
recent  acquaintance  whose  intrusive  sycophancy  had  not  yet 
made  its  way  into  his  confidential  intimacy,  he  gave  no  invita- 
tion. Boswell  felt  it  with  all  the  jealousy  of  a  little  mind. 
"  Dr.  Goldsmith,"  says  he,  in  his  memoirs,  "being  a  privileged 
man,  went  with  him,  strutting  away,  and  calling  to  me  with 
an  air  of  superiority,  like  that  of  an  esoteric  over  an  exoteric 
disciple  of  a  sage  of  antiquity,  *  I  go  to  Miss  Williams.'  I  con- 
fess I  then  envied  him  this  mighty  privilege,  of  which  he 
seemed  to  be  so  proud ;  but  it  was  not  long  before  I  obtained 
the  same  mark  of  distinction." 

Obtained  !  but  how?  not  like  Goldsmith,  by  the  force  of  un- 
pretending but  congenial  merit,  but  by  a  course  of  the  most 
pushing,  contriving,  and  spaniel-like  subserviency.  Really, 
the  ambition  of  the  man  to  illustrate  his  mental  insignificance, 
by  continually  placing  himself  in  juxtaposition  with  the  great- 
lexicographer,  has  something  in  it  perfectly  ludicrous.  Never, 
since  the  days  of  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza,  has  there 
been  presented  to  the  world  a  more  whimsically  contrasted  pair 
of  associates  than  Johnson  and  Boswell. 

"Who  is  this  Scotch  cur  at  Johnson's  heels?"  asked  some 
one  when  Boswell  had  worked  his  way  into  incessant  compan- 
ionship. "  He  is  not  a  cur,"  replied  Goldsmith,  "  you  are  too 
severe  ;  he  is  only  a  burr.  Tom  Davies  flung  him  at  Johnson 
in  sport,  and  he  has  the  faculty  of  sticking." 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  97 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

HOGARTH   A   VISITOR    AT    ISLINGTON  —  HIS     CHARACTER STREET 

STUDIES  SYMPATHIES     BETWEEN    AUTHORS     AND     PAINTERS 

SIR    JOSHUA     REYNOLDS  HIS     CHARACTER  —  HIS     DINNERS 

THE    LITERARY  CLUB ITS  MEMBERS JOHNSON'S  REVELS  WITH 

LANKY     AND     BEAU GOLDSMITH    AT   THE   CLUB. 

AMONG  the  intimates  who  used  to  visit  the  poet  occasionally 
in  his  retreat  at  Islington,  was  Hogarth  the  painter.  Gold- 
smith had  spoken  well  of  him  in  his  essays  in  the  Public 
Ledger,  and  this  formed  the  first  link  in  their  friendship.  He 
was  at  this  time  upward  of  sixty  years  of  age,  and  is  described 
as  a  stout,  active,  bustling  little  man,  in  a  sky-blue  coat,  satiri- 
cal and  dogmatic,  yet  full  of  real  benevolence  and  the  love  of 
human  nature.  He  was  the  moralist  and  philosopher  of  the 
pencil ;  like  Goldsmith  he  had  sounded  the  depths  of  vice  and 
misery,  without  being  polluted  by  them ;  and  though  his  pic- 
turings  had  not  the  pervading  amenity  of  those  of  the  essayist, 
and  dwelt  more  on  the  crimes  and  vices  than  the  follies  and 
humors  of  mankind,  yet  they  were  all  calculated,  in  like  man- 
ner, to  fill  the  mind  with  instruction  and  precept,  and  to  make 
the  heart  better. 

Hogarth  does  not  appear  to  have  had  much  of  the  rural  feel- 
ing with  which  Goldsmith  was  so  amply  endowed,  and  may 
not  have  accompanied  him  in  his  strolls  about  hedges  and 
green  lanes ;  but  he  was  a  fit  companion  with  whom  to  ex- 
plore the  mazes  of  London,  in  which  he  was  continually  on 
the  look-out  for  character  and  incident.  One  of  Hogarth's 
admirers  speaks  of  having  come  upon  him  in  Castle  Street, 
engaged  in  one  of  his  street  studies,  watching  two  boys  who 
were  quarrelling ;  patting  one  on  the  back  who  flinched,  and 
endeavoring  to  spirit  him  up  to  a  fresh  encounter.  "  At  him 
again  !  D —  him,  if  I  would  take  it  of  him  !  at  him  again  !  " 

A  frail  memorial  of  this  intimacy  between  the  painter  and 
the  poet  exists  in  a  portrait  in  oil,  called  "Goldsmith's  Host- 
ess." It  is  supposed  to  have  been  painted  by  Hogarth  in  the 
course  of  his  visits  to  Islington,  and  given  by  him  to  the  poet 
as  a  means  of  paying  his  landlady.  There  are  no  friendships 
among  men  of  talents  more  likely  to  be  sincere  than  those  be- 
tween painters  and  poets.  Possessed  of  the  same  qualities  of 
mind,  governed  by  the  same  principles  of  taste  and  natural 


98  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

laws  of  grace  and  beauty,  but  applying  them  to  different  yet 
mutually  illustrative  arts,  they  are  constantly  in  sympathy  and 
never  in  collision  with  each  other. 

A  still  more  congenial  intimacy  of  the  kind  was  that  con- 
tracted by  Goldsmith  with  Mr.  afterward  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds. The  latter  was  now  about  forty  years  of  age,  a  few 
years  older  than  the  poet,  whom  he  charmed  by  the  blandness 
and  benignity  of  his  manners,  and  the  nobleness  and  generos- 
ity of  his  disposition,  as  much  as  he  did  by  the  graces  of  his 
pencil  and  the  magic  of  his  coloring.  They  were  men  of  kin- 
dred genius,  excelling  in  corresponding  qualities  of  their  sev- 
eral arts,  for  style  in  writing  is  what  color  is  in  painting  ;  both 
are  innate  endowments,  and  equally  magical  in  their  effects. 
Certain  graces  and  harmonies  of  both  may  be  acquired  by  dili- 
gent study  and  imitation,  but  only  in  a  limited  degree  ;  whereas 
by  their  natural  possessors  they  are  exercised  spontaneously, 
almost  unconsciously,  and  with  ever-varying  fascination. 
Reynolds  soon  understood  and  appreciated  the  merits  of  Gold- 
smith, and  a  sincere  and  lasting  friendship  ensued  between 
them. 

At  Reynolds's  house  Goldsmith  mingled  in  a  higher  range  of 
company  than  he  had  been  accustomed  to.  The  fame  of  this 
celebrated  artist,  and  his  amenity  of  manners,  were  gathering 
round  him  men  of  talents  of  all  kinds,  and  the  increasing  afflu- 
enco  of  his  circumstances  enabled  him  to  give  full  indulgence 
to  his  hospitable  disposition.  Poor  Goldsmith  had  not  yet, 
like  Dr.  Johnson,  acquired  reputation  enough  to  atone  for  his 
external  defects  and  his  want  of  the  air  of  good  society.  Miss 
Reynolds  used  to  inveigh  against  his  personal  appearance, 
which  gave  her  the  idea,  she  said,  of  a  low  mechanic,  a  jour- 
neyman tailor.  One  evening  at  a  large  supper-party,  being 
called  upon  to  give  as  a  toast,  the  ugliest  man  she  knew,  she 
gave  Dr.  Goldsmith,  upon  which  a  lady  who  sat  opposite,  and 
whom  she  had  never  met  before,  shook  hands  with  her  across 
the  table,  and  "  hoped  to  become  better  acquainted." 

We  have  a  graphic  and  amusing  picture  of  Reynolds's  hos- 
pitable but  motley  establishment,  in  an  account  given  by  a 
Mr.  Courtenay  to  Sir  James  Mackintosh  ;  though  it  speaks  of  a 
time  after  Reynolds  had  received  the  honor  of  knighthood. 
"  There  was  something  singular,"  said  he,  "  in  the  style  and 
economy  of  Sir  Joshua's  table  that  contributed  to  pleasantry 
and  good-humor,  a  coarse,  inelegant  plenty,  without  any  regard 
to  order  and  arrangement.  At  five  o'clock  precisely,  dinner 
was  served,  whether  all  the  invited  guests  had  arrived  or  not. 


SIR    JOSHUA     REYNOLDS. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  99 

Sir  Joshua  was  never  so  fashionably  ill-bred  as  to  wait  an  hour 
perhaps  for  two  or  three  persons  of  rank  or  title,  and  put  the 
rest  of  the  company  out  of  humor  by  this  invidious  distinction. 
His  invitations,  however,  did  not  regulate  the  number  of  his 
guests.  Many  dropped  in  uninvited.  A  table  prepared  for 
seven  or  eight  was  often  compelled  to  contain  fifteen  or  sixteen. 
There  was  a  consequent  deficiency  of  knives,  forks,  plates,  and 
glasses.  The  attendance  was  in  the  same  style,  and  those  who 
were  knowing  in  the  ways  of  the  house  took  care  on  sitting  down 
to  call  instantly  for  beer,  bread,  or  wine,  that  they  might  secure 
a  supply  before  the  first  course  was  over.  He  was  once  pre- 
vailed on  to  furnish  the  table  with  decanters  and  glasses  at; 
dinner,  to  save  time  and  prevent  confusion.  These  gradually 
were  demolished  in  the  course  of  service,  and  were  never  re- 
placed. These  trifling  embarrassments,  however,  only  served 
to  enhance  the  hilarity  and  singular  pleasure  of  the  entertain- 
ment. The  wine,  cookery  and  dishes  were  but  little  attended 
to  ;  nor  was  the  fish  or  venison  ever  talked  of  or  recommended. 
Amid  this  convivial  animated  bustle  among  his  guests,  our 
host  sat  perfectly  composed ;  always  attentive  to  what  was 
said,  never  minding  what  was  ate  or  drank,  but  left  every  one 
at  perfect  liberty  to  scramble  for  himself. 

Out  of  the  casual  but  frequent  meeting  of  men  of  talent  at 
this  hospitable  board  rose  that  association  of  wits,  authors, 
scholars,  and  statesmen,  renowned  as  the  Literary  Club.  Rey- 
nolds was  the  first  to  propose  a  regular  association  of  the  kind, 
and  was  eagerly  seconded  by  Johnson,  who  proposed  as  a  model 
a  club  which  he  had  formed  many  years  previously  in  Ivy  Lane, 
but  which  was  now  extinct.  Like  that  club  the  number  of  mem- 
bers was  limited  to  nine.  They  were  to  meet  and  sup  together 
once  a  week,  on  Monday  night,  at  the  Turk's  Head  on  Gerard 
Street,  Soho,  and  two  members  were  to  constitute  a  meeting. 
It  took  a  regular  form  in  the  year  1764,  but  did  not  receive  its 
literary  appellation  until  several  years  afterward. 

The  original  members  were  Reynolds,  Johnson,  Burke,  Dr. 
Nugent,  Bennet  Langton,  Topham  Beauclerc,  Chamier,  Haw- 
kins, and  Goldsmith ;  and  here  a  few  words  concerning  some 
of  the  members  may  be  acceptable.  Burke  was  at  that  time 
about  thirty-three  years  of  age ;  he  had  mingled  a  little  in 
politics,  and  been  Under  Secretary  to  Hamilton  at  Dublin,  but 
was  again  a  writer  for  the  booksellers,  and  as  yet  but  in  the 
dawning  of  his  fame.  Dr.  Nugent  was  his  father-in-law,  a 
Roman  Catholic,  and  a  physician  of  talent  and  instruction. 
Mr.  afterward  Sir  John  Hawkins  was  admitted  into  this  asso- 


100  OZIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

ciation  from  having  been  a  member  of  Johnson's  Ivy  Lane 
club.  Originally  an  attorney,  he  had  retired  from  the  practice 
of  the  law,  in  consequence  of  a  large  fortune  which  fell  to  him 
in  right  of  his  wife,  and  was  now  a  Middlesex  magistrate.  He 
was,  moreover,  a  dabbler  in  literature  and  music,  and  was  actu- 
ally engaged  on  a  history  of  music,  which  he  subsequently 
published  in  five  ponderous  volumes.  To  him  we  are  also  in- 
debted for  a  biography  of  Johnson,  which  appeared  after  the 
death  of  that  eminent  man.  Hawkins  was  as  mean  and  parsi- 
monious as  he  was  pompous  and  conceited.  He  forbore  to 
partake  of  the  suppers  at  the  club,  and  begged  therefore  to  be 
excused  from  paying  his  share  of  the  reckoning.  "And  was 
he  excused?"  asked  Dr.  Burney  of  Johnson.  "Oh  yes,  for 
no  man  is  angry  at  another  for  being  inferior  to  himself.  "We 
all  scorned  him  and  admitted  his  plea.  Yet  I  really  believe  him 
to  be  an  honest  man  at  bottom,  though  to  be  sure  he  is  penurious, 
and  he  is  mean,  and  it  must  be  owned  he  has  a  tendency  to 
savageness."  He  did  not  remain  above  two  or  three  years  in 
the  club ;  being  in  a  manner  elbowed  out  in  consequence  of  his 
rudeness  to  Burke. 

Mr.  Anthony  Chamier  was  secretary  in  the  War  Office,  and 
a  friend  of  Beauclerc,  by  whom  he  was  proposed.  We  have 
left  our  mention  of  Bennet  Laugton  and  Topham  Beauclerc 
until  the  last,  because  we  have  most  to  say  about  them.  They 
were  doubtless  induced  to  join  the  club  through  their  devotion  to 
Johnson,  and  the  intimacy  of  these  two  very  young  and  aristo- 
cratic young  men  with  the  stern  and  somewhat  melancholy 
moralist  is  among  the  curiosities  of  literature. 

Bennet  Langton  was  of  an  ancient  family,  who  held  their 
ancestral  estate  of  Langton  in  Lincolnshire,  a  great  title  to 
respect  with  Johnson.  "  Langton,  sir,"  he  would  say,  "  has  a 
grant  of  free  warren  from  Henry  the  Second ;  and  Cardinal 
Stephen  Langton,  in  King  John's  reign,  was  of  this  family." 

Langton  was  of  a  mild,  contemplative,  enthusiastic  nature. 
When  but  eighteen  years  of  age  he  was  so  delighted  with  read- 
ing Johnson's  "Rambler,"  that  he  came  to  London  chiefly  with 
a  view  to  obtain  an  introduction  to  the  author.  Boswell  gives 
us  an  account  of  his  first  interview,  which  took  place  in  the 
morning.  It  is  not  often  that  the  personal  appearance  of  an 
author  agrees  with  the  preconceived  ideas  of  his  admirer. 
Langton,  from  perusing  the  writings  of  Johnson,  expected  to 
find  him  a  decent,  well-dressed,  in  short  a  remarkably  decorous 
philosopher.  Instead  of  which,  down  from  his  bedchamber 
about  noon,  came,  as  newly  risen,  a  large  uncouth  figure,  with 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  101 

a  little  dark  wig  which  scarcely  covered  his  head,  and  his  clothes 
banging  loose  about  hinu  But  his  conversation  was  so  rich,  so 
animated,  and  so  forcible,  and  his  religious  and  political  notions 
so  congenial  with  those  in  which  Langton  had  been  educated, 
that  he  conceived  for  him  that  veneration  and  attachment  which 
he  ever  preserved. 

Langton  went  to  pursue  his  studies  at  Trinity  College,  Ox- 
ford, where  Johnson  saw  much  of  him  during  a  visit  which  he 
paid  to  the  university.  He  found  him  in  close  intimacy  with 
Topham  Beauclerc,  a  youth  two  years  older  than  himself,  very 
gay  and  dissipated,  and  wondered  what  sympathies  could  draw 
two  young  men  together  of  such  opposite  characters.  On  be- 
coming acquainted  with  Beauclerc  he  found  that,  rake  though 
he  was,  he  possessed  an  ardent  love  of  literature,  an  acute 
understanding,  polished  wit,  innate  gentility  and  high  aristo- 
cratic breeding.  He  was,  moreover,  the  only  son  of  Lord  Sidney 
Beauclerc  and  grandson  of  the  Duke  of  St.  Albans,  and  was 
thought  in  some  particulars  to  have  a  resemblance  to  Charles 
the  Second.  These  were  high  recommendations  with  Johnson, 
and  when  the  youth  testified  a  profound  respect  for  him  and  an 
ardent  admiration  of  his  talents  the  conquest  was  complete,  so 
that  in  a  "  short  time,"  says  Bos  well,  "  the  moral,  pious  John- 
son and  the  gay  dissipated  Beauclerc  were  companions." 

The  intimacy  begun  in  college  chambers  was  continued  when 
the  youths  came  to  town  during  the  vacations.  The  uncouth, 
unwieldy  moralist  was  flattered  at  finding  himself  an  object  of 
idolatry  to  two  high-born,  high-bred,  aristocratic  young  men, 
and  throwing  gravity  aside,  was  ready  to  join  in  their  vagaries 
and  play  the  part  of  a  "young  man  upon  town."  Such  at  least 
is  the  picture  given  of  him  by  Boswell  on  one  occasion  when 
Beauclerc  and  Langton  having  supped  together  at  a  tavern  de- 
termined to  give  Johnson  a  rouse  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. They  accordingly  rapped  violently  at  the  door  of  his 
chambers  in  the  Temple.  The  indignant  sage  sallied  forth  in 
his  shirt,  poker  in  hand,  and  a  little  black  wig  on  the  top  of  his 
head,  instead  of  helmet ;  prepared  to  wreak  vengeance  on  the 
assailants  of  his  castle  ;  but  when  his  two  young  friends,  Lanky 
and  Beau,  as  he  used  to  call  them,  presented  themselves,  sum- 
moning him  forth  to  a  morning  ramble,  his  whole  manner 
changed.  "  What,  is  it  you,  ye  dogs? "  cried  he.  "Faith,  I'll 
have  a  frisk  with  you  !  ' ' 

So  said  so  done.  They  sallied  forth  together  into  Covent 
Garden  ;  figured  among  the  green  grocers  and  fruit  women, 
just  come  in  from  the  country  with  their  hampers ;  repaired  to 


102  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

a  neighboring  tavern,  where  Johnson  brewed  a  bowl  of  bishop, 
a  favorite  beverage  with  him,  grew  merry  over  his  cups,  and 
anathematized  sleep  in  two  lines  from  Lord  Lansdowne's  drink- 
ing song : 

"  Short,  very  short,  be  then  thy  reign, 
For  I'm  in  haste  to  laugh  and  drink  again." 

They  then  took  boat  again,  rowed  to  Billingsgate,  and  Johnson 
and  Beauclerc  determined,  like  "  mad  wags,"  to  "  keep  it  up  " 
for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Langton,  however,  the  most  sober- 
minded  of  the  three,  pleaded  an  engagement  to  breakfast  with 
some  young  ladies ;  whereupon  the  great  moralist  reproached 
him  with  "  leaving  his  social  friends  to  go  and  sit  with  a  set  of 
wretched  unidea'd  girls." 

This  madcap  freak  of  the  great  lexicographer  made  a  sensa- 
tion, as  may  well  be  supposed,  among  his  intimates.  "  I  heard 
of  your  frolic  t'other  night,"  said  Garrick  to  him  ;  "you'll  be 
in  the  Chronicle."  He  uttered  worse  forebodings  to  others. 
"  I  shall  have  my  old  friend  to  bail  out  of  the  round-house," 
said  he.  Johnson,  however,  valued  himself  upon  having  thus 
enacted  a  chapter  in  the  "  Rake's  Progress,"  and  crowed  over 
Garrick  on  the  occasion.  "  He  durst  not  do  such  a  thing!  " 
chuckled  he,  "  his  wife  would  not  let  him  !  " 

When  these  two  young  men  entered  the  club,  Langton  was 
about  twenty-two,  and  Beauclerc  about  twenty-four  years  of 
age,  and  both  were  launched  on  London  life.  Langton,  how- 
ever, was  still  the  mild,  enthusiastic  scholar,  steeped  to  the  lips 
in  Greek,  with  fine  conversational  powers,  and  an  invaluable  tal- 
ent for  listening.  He  was  upward  of  six  feet  high,  and  very  spare. 
"Oh!  that  we  could  sketch  him,"  exclaims  Miss  Hawkins,  in 
her  Memoirs,  "  with  his  mild  countenance,  his  elegant  features, 
and  his  sweet  smile,  sitting  with  one  leg  twisted  round  the  other, 
as  if  fearing  to  occupy  more  space  than  was  equitable ;  his 
person  inclining  forward,  as  if  wanting  strength  to  support  his 
weight,  and  his  arms  crossed  over  his  bosom,  or  his  hands 
locked  together  on  his  knee."  Beauclerc,  on  such  occasions, 
sportively  compared  him  to  a  stork  in  Raphael's  Cartoons, 
standing  on  one  leg.  Beauclerc  was  more  "  a  man  upon  town," 
a  lounger  in  St.  James's  Street,  an  associate  with  George  Selwyn, 
with  Walpole,  and  other  aristocratic  wits  ;  a  man  of  fashion  at 
court ;  a  casual  frequenter  of  the  gaming-table ;  yet  with  all 
this,  he  alternated  in  the  easiest  and  happiest  manner  the 
scholar  and  the  man  of  letters  ;  lounged  into  the  club  with 
the  most  perfect  self-possession,  bringing  with  him  the  careless 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  103 

grace  and  polished  wit  of  high-bred  society,  but  making  him- 
self cordially  at  home  among  his  learned  fellow-members. 

The  gay  yet  lettered  rake  maintained  his  sway  over  Johnson, 
who  was  fascinated  by  that  air  of  the  world,  that  ineffable  tone 
of  good  society  in  which  he  felt  himself  deficient,  especially  as 
the  possessor  of  it  always  paid  homage  to  his  superior  talent. 
"  Beauclerc,"  he  would  say,  using  a  quotation  from  Pope,  "  has 
a  love  of  folly,  but  a  scorn  of  fools  ;  every  thing  he  docs  shows 
the  one,  and  every  thing  he  says  the  other."  Beauclerc  de- 
lighted in  rallying  the  stern  moralist  of  whom  others  stood  in 
awe,  and  no  one,  according  to  Boswell,  could  take  equal  liberty 
with  him  with  impunity.  Johnson,  it  is  well  known,  was  often 
shabby  and  negligent  in  his  dress,  and  not  over-cleanly  in  his 
person.  On  receiving  a  pension  from  the  crown,  his  friends 
vied  with  each  other  in  respectful  congratulations.  Beauclerc 
simply  scanned  his  person  with  a  whimsical  glance,  and  hoped 
that,  like  Falstaff,  "•  he'd  in  future  purge  and  live  cleanly  like  a 
gentleman."  Johnson  took  the  hint  with  unexpected  good  hu- 
mor, and  profited  by  it. 

Still  Beauclerc's  satirical  vein,  which  darted  shafts  on  every 
side,  was  not  always  tolerated  by  Johnson.  "•  Sir,"  said  he  on 
one  occasion,  "  you  never  open  your  mouth  but  with  intention 
to  give  pain  ;  and  you  have  often  given  me  pain,  not  from  the 
power  of  what  you  have  said,  but  from  seeing  your  intention." 

When  it  was  first  proposed  to  enroll  Goldsmith  among  the 
members  of  this  association,  there  seems  to  have  been  some 
demur  ;  at  least  so  says  the  pompous  Hawkins.  "  As  he  wrote 
for  the  booksellers,  we  of  the  club  looked  on  him  as  a  mere 
literary  drudge,  equal  to  the  task  of  compiling  and  translating, 
but  little  capable  of  original  and  still  less  of  poetical  composi- 
tion." 

Even  for  some  time  after  his  admission,  he  continued  to  be 
regarded  in  a  dubious  light  by  some  of  the  members.  Johnson 
and  Reynolds,  of  course,  were  well  aware  of  his  merits,  nor  was 
Burke  a  stranger  to  them  ;  but  to  the  others  he  was  as  yet  a 
sealed  book,  and  the  outside  was  not  prepossessing.  His  un- 
gainly person  and  awkward  manners  were  against  him  with  men 
accustomed  to  the  graces  of  society,  and  he  was  not  sufficiently 
at  home  to  give  play  to  his  humor  and  to  that  bonhomie  which 
won  the  hearts  of  all  who  knew  him.  He  felt  strange  and  out 
of  place  in  this  new  sphere ;  he  felt  at  times  the  cool  satirical 
eye  of  the  courtly  Beauclerc  scanning  him,  and  the  more  he 
attempted  to  appear  at  his  ease,  the  more  awkward  he  became. 


104  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

JOHNSON   A   MONITOR    TO     GOLDSMITH FINDS     HIM     IN     DISTRESS 

WITH    HIS    LANDLADY RELIEVED     BY     THE     VICAR     OF     WAKE- 
FIELD THE      ORATORIO  POEM    OF     THE     TRAVELLER   THE 

POET   AND   HIS    DOG SUCCESS    OF   THE    POEM  —  ASTONISHMENT 

OF   THE   CLUB  —  OBSERVATIONS    ON   THE    POEM. 

JOHNSON  had  now  become  one  of  Goldsmith's  best  friends 
and  advisers.  He  knew  all  the  weak  points  of  his  character, 
but  he  knew  also  his  merits ;  and  while  he  would  rebuke  him 
like  a  child,  and  rail  at\iis  errors  and  follies,  he  would  suffer  no 
one  else  to  undervalue  him.  Goldsmith  knew  the  soundness  of 
his  judgment  and  his  practical  benevolence,  and  often  sought 
his  counsel  and  aid  amid  the  difficulties  into  which  his  heedless- 
ness  was  continually  plunging  him. 

"I  received  one  morning,"  says  Johnson,  "a  message  from 
poor  Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and,  as  it  was  not 
in  his  power  to  come  to  me,  begging  that  I  would  come  to  him 
as  soon  as  possible.  I  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised  to  come 
to  him  directly.  I  accordingly  went  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed, 
and  found  that  his  landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his  rent,  at 
which  he  was  in  a  violent  passion ;  I  perceived  that  he  had 
already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had  a  bottle  of  Madeira  and  a 
glass  before  him.  I  put  the  cork  into  the  bottle,  desired  he 
would  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  of  the  means  by  which 
he  might  be  extricated.  He  then  told  me  he  had  a  novel  ready 
for  the  press,  which  he  produced  to  me.  I  looked  into  it  and 
saw- its  merit ;  told  the  landlady  I  should  soon  return  ;  and,  hav- 
ing gone  to  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty  pounds.  I  brought 
Goldsmith  the  money,  and  he  discharged  his  rent,  not  without 
rating  his  landlady  in  a  high  tone  for  having  used  him  so  ill." 

The  novel  in  question  was  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield;"  the 
bookseller  to  whom  Johnson  sold  it  was  Francis  Newbery 
nephew  to  John.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  this  captivating 
work,  which  has  obtained  and  preserved  an  almost  unrivalled 
popularity  in  various  languages,  was  so  little  appreciated  by 
the  bookseller,  that  he  kept  it  by  him  for  nearly  two  years  un- 
published ! 

Goldsmith  had,  as  yet,  produced  nothing  of  moment  in  poetry. 
Among  his  literary  jobs,  it  is  true,  was  an  oratorio  entitled 
"The  Captivity,"  founded  on  the  bondage  of  the  Israelites  in 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  105 

Babylon.  It  was  one  of  those  unhappy  offsprings  of  the  muse 
ushered  into  existence  amid  the  distortions  of  music.  Most  of 
the  oratorio  has  passed  into  oblivion ;  but  the  following  song 
from  it  will  never  die : 

"  The  wretch  condemned  from  life  to  parts 

Still,  still  on  hope  relies, 
And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart 
Bids  expectation  rise. 

«  Hope,  like  the  glimmering  taper's  light, 

Illumes  and  cheers  our  way ; 
And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 
Emits  a  brighter  ray." 

Goldsmith  distrusted  his  qualifications  to  succeed  in  poetry, 
and  doubted  the  disposition  of  the  public  mind  in  regard  to  it. 
" I  fear,"  said  he,  "I  have  come  too  late  into  the  world  ;  Pope 
and  other  poets  have  taken  up  the  places  in  the  temple  of  Fame  ; 
and  as  few  at  any  period  can  possess  poetical  reputation,  a 
man  of  genius  can  now  hardly  acquire  it."  Again,  on  another 
occasion,  he  observes  :  "Of  all  kinds  of  ambition,  as  things  are 
now  circumstanced,  perhaps  that  which  pursues  poetical  fame  is 
the  wildest.  What  from  the  increased  refinement  of  the  times, 
from  the  diversity  of  judgment  produced  by  opposing  systems 
of  criticism,  and  from  the  more  prevalent  divisions  of  opinion 
influenced  by  party,  the  strongest  and  happiest  efforts  can  ex- 
pect to  please  but  in  a  very  narrow  circle." 

At  this  very  time  he  had  by  him  his  poem  of  "  The  Travel- 
ler." The  plan  of  it,  as  has  already  been  observed,  was  con- 
ceived many  years  before,  during  his  travels  in  Switzerland, 
and  a  sketch  of  it  sent  from  that  country  to  his  brother  Henry 
in  Ireland.  The  original  outline  is  said  to  have  embraced  a 
wider  scope ;  but  it  was  probably  contracted  through  diffidence, 
in  the  process  of  finishing  the  parts.  It  had  lain  by  him  for 
several  years  in  a  crude  state,  and  it  was  with  extreme  hesita- 
tion and  after  much  revision  that  he  at  length  submitted  it  to 
Dr.  Johnson.  The  frank  and  warm  approbation  of  the  latter 
encouraged  him  to  finish  it  for  the  press  ;  and  Dr.  Johnson  him- 
self contributed  a  few  lines  toward  the  conclusion. 

We  hear  much  about  "  poetic  inspiration,"  and  "  the  poet's 
eye  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling ;  ' '  but  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  gives  an 
anecdote  of  Goldsmith  while  engaged  upon  his  poem,  calculated 
to  cure  our  notions  about  the  ardor  of  composition.  Calling 
upon  the  poet  one  day,  he  opened  the  door  without  ceremony, 
and  found  him  in  the  double  occupation  of  turning  a  couplet 


106  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

and  teaching  a  pet  dog  to  sit  upon  his  haunches.  At  one  time 
he  would  glance  his  eye  at  his  desk,  and  at  another  shake  his 
finger  at  the  dog  to  make  him  retain  his  position.  The  last 
lines  on  the  page  were  still  wet ;  they  form  a  part  of  the  descrip- 
tion of  Italy : 

"  By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguiled, 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child." 

Goldsmith,  with  his  usual  good-humor,  joined  in  the  laugh 
caused  by  his  whimsical  employment,  and  acknowledged  that 
his  boyish  sport  with  the  dog  suggested  the  stanza. 

The  poem  was  published  on  the  19th  of  December,  1764,  in  a 
quarto  form,  by  Newbery,  and  was  the  first  of  his  works  to 
which  Goldsmith  prefixed  his  name.  As  a  testimony  of  cher- 
ished and  well-merited  affection,  he  dedicated  it  to  his  brother 
Henry.  There  is  an  amusing  affectation  of  indifference  as  to  its 
fate  expressed  in  the  dedication.  "What  reception  a  poem 
may  find,"  says  he,  "  which  has  neither  abuse,  party,  nor  blank 
verse  to  support  it,  I  cannot  tell,  nor  am  I  solicitous  to  know." 
The  truth  is,  no  one  was  more  emulous  and  anxious  for  poetic 
fame ;  and  never  was  he  more  anxious  than  in  the  present  in- 
stance, for  it  was  his  grand  stake.  Dr.  Johnson  aided  the 
launching  of  the  poem  by  a  favorable  notice  in  the  Critical  Re- 
view; other  periodical  works  came  out  in  its  favor.  Some  of 
the  author's  friends  complained  that  it  did  not  command  instant 
and  wide  popularity  ;  that  it  was  a  poem  to  win,  not  to  strike  ; 
it  went  on  rapidly  increasing  in  favor ;  in  three  months  a  second 
edition  was  issued ;  shortly  afterward  a  third  ;  then  a  fourth ; 
and,  before  the  year  was  out,  the  author  was  pronounced  the  best 
poet  of  his  time. 

The  appearance  of  "  The  Traveller  "  at  once  altered  Gold- 
smith's intellectual  standing  in  the  estimation  of  society ;  but 
its  effect  upon  the  club,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  account 
given  by  Hawkins,  was  almost  ludicrous.  They  were  lost  in  as- 
tonishment that  a  "newspaper  essayist"  and  "bookseller's 
diudge  "  should  have  written  such  a  poem.  On  the  evening  of 
its  announcement  to  them  Goldsmith  had  gone  away  early, 
after  "  rattling  away  as  usual,"  and  they  knew  not  how  to  rec- 
oncile his  heedless  garrulity  with  the  serene  beauty,  the  easy 
grace,  the  sound  good  sense,  and  the  occasional  elevation  of 
his  poetry.  They  could  scarcely  believe  that  such  magic  num- 
bers had  flowed  from  a  man  to  whom  in  general,  says  Johnson, 
"  it  was  with  difficulty  they  could  give  a  hearing."  "Well," 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  107 

exclaimed  Chamier,  "I  do  believe  he  wrote  this  poem  himself, 
and  let  me  tell  you,  that  is  believing  a  great  deal." 

At  the  next  meeting  of  the  club  Chamier  sounded  the  author 
a  little  about  his  poem.  "  Mr.  Goldsmith,"  said  he,  "  what  do 
you  mean  by  the  last  word  in  the  first  line  of  your  '  Traveller,' 
'  remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow  '  ?  do  you  mean  tardiness 
of  locomotion?"  "Yes,"  replied  Goldsmith  inconsiderately, 
being  probably  flurried  at  the  moment.  "  No,  sir,"  interposed 
his  protecting  friend  Johnson,  "  you  did  not  mean  tardiness  of 
locomotion  ;  you  meant  that  sluggishness  of  mind  which  comes 
upon  a  man  in  solitude."  "  Ah,"  exclaimed  Goldsmith,  "  that 
was  what  I  meant."  Chamier  immediately  believed  that  John- 
son himself  had  written  the  line,  and  a  rumor  became  prev- 
alent that  he  was  the  author  of  many  of  the  finest  passages. 
This  was  ultimately  set  at  rest  by  Johnson  himself,  who  marked 
with  a  pencil  all  the  verses  he  had  contributed,  nine  in  number, 
inserted  toward  the  conclusion,  and  by  no  means  the  best  in 
the  poem.  He  moreover,  with  generous  warmth,  pronounced 
it  the  finest  poem  that  had  appeared  since  the  days  of  Pope. 

But  one  of  the  highest  testimonials  to  the  charm  of  the  poem 
was  given  by  Miss  Reynolds,  who  had  toasted  poor  Goldsmith 
as  the  ugliest  man  of  her  acquaintance.  Shortly  after  the  ap- 
pearance of  "  The  Traveller,"  Dr.  Johnson  read  it  aloud  from 
beginning  to  end  in  her  presence.  "  Well,"  exclaimed  she, 
when  he  had  finished,  "  I  never  more  shall  think  Dr.  Gold- 
smith ugly !  " 

On  another  occasion,  when  the  merits  of  "  The  Traveller  " 
were  discussed  at  Reynolds's  board,  Langton  declared  "There 
was  not  a  bad  line  in  the  poem,  not  one  of  Dryden's  careless 
verses."  "  I  was  glad,"  observed  Reynolds,  "  to  hear  Charles 
Fox  say  it  was  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  English  language." 
"  Why  were  you  glad?"  rejoined  Langton;  "you  surely  had 
no  doubt  of  this  before."  "  No,"  interposed  Johnson,  deci- 
sively;  "the  merit  of  '  The  Traveller  '  is  so  well  established 
that  Mr.  Fox's  praise  cannot  augment  it,  nor  his  censure  dimin- 
ish it." 

Bos  well,  who  was  absent  from  England  at  the  time  of  the 
publication  of  "The  Traveller,"  was  astonished,  on  his  return, 
to  find  Goldsmith,  whom  he  had  so  much  undervalued,  sud- 
denly elevated  almost  to  a  par  with  his  idol.  He  accounted  for 
it  by  concluding  that  much  both  of  the  sentiments  and  expres- 
sion of  the  poem  had  been  derived  from  conversations  with 
Johnson.  "He  imitates  you,  sir,"  said  this  incarnation  of 
toadyism.  "Why,  no,  sir,"  replied  Johnson,  "Jack  Hawks- 


108  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

worth  is  one  of  my  imitators,  but  not  Goldsmith.  Goldy,  sir, 
has  great  merit."  "But,  sir,  he  is  much  indebted  to  you  for 
his  getting  so  high  in  the  public  estimation."  "  Why,  sir,  he 
Las,  perhaps,  got  sooner  to  it  by  his  intimacy  with  me." 

The  poem  went  through  several  editions  in  the  course  of  the 
first  year,  and  received  some  few  additions  and  corrections 
from  the  author's  pen.  It  produced  a  golden  harvest  to  Mr. 
Newbery,  but  all  the  remuneration  on  record,  doled  out  by  his 
niggard  hand  to  the  author,  was  twenty  guineas ! 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

NEW   LODGINGS  —  JOHNSON'S    COMPLIMENT A   TITLED    PATRON  — 

THE    POET   AT    NORTHUMBERLAND     HOUSE HIS     INDEPENDENCE 

OF  THE   GREAT — THE   COUNTESS   OF  NORTHUMBERLAND — EDWIN 

AND     ANGELINA GOSFIELD    AND     LORD     CLARE PUBLICATION 

OF   ESSAYS EVILS     OF    A     RISING    REPUTATION  —  HANGERS-ON 

JOB    WRITING  —  GOODY   TWO   SHOES  —  A    MEDICAL   CAMPAIGN 

MRS.    SIDEBOTHAM. 

GOLDSMITH,  now  that  he  was  rising  in  the  world,  and  becom- 
ing a  notoriety,  felt  himself  called  upon  to  improve  his  style 
of  living.  He  accordingly  emerged  from  Wine-Office  Court, 
and  took  chambers  in  the  Temple.  It  is  true  they  were  but 
of  humble  pretensions,  situated  on  what  was  then  the  library 
staircase,  and  it  would  appear  that  he  was  a  kind  of  inmate 
with  Jeffs,  the  butler  of  the  society.  Still  he  was  in  the  Tem- 
ple, that  classic  region  rendered  famous  by  the  Spectator  and 
other  essayists,  as  the  abode  of  gay  wits  and  thoughtful  men 
of  letters ;  and  which,  with  its  retired  courts  and  embowered 
gardens,  in  the  very  heart  of  a  noisy  metropolis,  is,  to  the 
quiet-seeking  student  and  author,  an  oasis  freshening  with 
verdure  in  the  midst  of  a  desert.  Johnson,  who  had  become 
a  kind  of  growling  supervisor  of  the  poet's  affairs,  paid  him  a 
visit  soon  after  he  had  installed  himself  in  his  new  quarters, 
and  went  prying  about  the  apartment,  in  his  near-sighted 
manner,  examining  every  thing  minutely.  Goldsmith  was 
fidgeted  by  this  curious  scrutiny,  and  apprehending  a  dispo- 
sition to  find  fault,  exclaimed,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had 
money  in  both  pockets,  "  I  shall  soon  be  in  better  chambers 
than  these."  The  harmless  bravado  drew  a  reply  from  John- 
son, which  touched  the  chord  of  proper  pride.  "  Nay,  sir," 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  109 

said  he,  "  never  mind  that.  Nil  te  quaesiveris  extra,"  imply- 
ing that  his  reputation  rendered  him  independent  of  outward 
show.  Happy  would  it  have  been  for  poor  Goldsmith,  could 
he  have  kept  this  consolatory  compliment  perpetually  in  mind, 
and  squared  his  expenses  accordingly. 

Among  the  persons  of  rank  who  were  struck  with  the  merits 
of  "The  Traveller  "  was  the  Earl  (afterward  Duke)  of  North- 
umberland. He  procured  several  other  of  Goldsmith's  writ- 
ings, the  perusal  of  which  tended  to  elevate  the  author  in  his 
good  opinion,  and  to  gain  for  him  his  good  will.  The  earl  held 
the  office  of  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  and  understanding 
Goldsmith  was  an  Irishman,  was  disposed  to  extend  to  him 
the  patronage  which  his  high  post  afforded.  He  intimated 
the  same  to  his  relative,  Dr.  Percy,  who,  he  found,  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  poet,  and  expressed  a  wish  that  the  latter 
should  wait  upon  him.  Here,  then,  was  another  opportunity 
for  Goldsmith  to  better  his  fortune,  had  he  been  knowing  and 
worldly  enough  to  profit  by  it.  Unluckily  the  path  to  fortune 
lay  through  the  aristocratical  mazes  of  Northumberland  House, 
and  the  poet  blundered  at  the  outset.  The  following  is  the  ac- 
count he  used  to  give  of  his  visit :  "I  dressed  myself  in  the 
best  manner  I  could,  and,  after  studying  some  compliments  I 
thought  necessary  on  such  an  occasion,  proceeded  to  North- 
umberland House,  and  acquainted  the  servants  that  I  had  par- 
ticular business  with  the  duke.  They  showed  me  into  an 
antechamber,  where,  after  waiting  some  time,  a  gentleman, 
very  elegantly  dressed,  made  his  appearance ;  taking  him  for 
the  duke,  I  delivered  all  the  fine  things  I  had  composed  in 
order  to  compliment  him  on  the  honor  he  had  done  me  ;  when, 
to  my  great  astonishment,  he  told  me  I  had  mistaken  him 
for  his  master,  who  would  see  me  immediately.  At  that  in- 
stant the  duke  came  into  the  apartment,  and  I  was  so  con- 
founded on  the  occasion,  that  I  wanted  words  barely  sufficient 
to  express  the  sense  I  entertained  of  the  duke's  politeness,  and 
went  away  exceedingly  chagrined  at  the  blunder  I  had  com- 
mitted." 

Sir  John  Hawkins,  in  his  life  of  Dr.  Johnson,  gives  some 
further  particulars  of  this  visit,  of  which  he  was,  in  part,  a 
witness.  "  Having  one  day,"  says  he,  "a  call  to  make  on  the 
late  Duke,  then  Earl,  of  Northumberland,  I  found  Goldsmith 
waiting  for  an  audience  in  an  outer  room  ;  I  asked  him  what 
had  brought  him  there ;  he  told  me,  an  invitation  from  his 
lordship.  I  made  my  business  as  short  as  I  could,  and,  as  a 
reason,  mentioned  that  Dr.  Goldsmith  was  waiting  without. 


110  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

The  earl  asked  me  if  I  was  acquainted  with  Irim.  I  told  him 
that  I  was,  adding  what  I  thought  most  likely  to  recommend 
him.  I  retired,  and  stayed  in  the  outer  room  to  take  him 
home.  Upon  his  coming  out,  I  asked  him  the  result  of  his  con- 
versation. '  His  lordship,'  said  he,  '  told  me  he  had  read  my 
poem,  meaning  "  The  Traveller,"  and  was  much  delighted 
with  it ;  that  he  was  going  to  be  lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland, 
and  that  hearing  I  was  a  native  of  that  country,  he  should  be 
glad  to  do  me  any  kindness.'  '  And  what  did  you  answer,' 
said  I,  '  to  this  gracious  offer? '  '  Why,'  said  he,  '  I  could  say 
nothing  but  that  I  had  a  brother  there,  a  clergyman,  that  stood 
in  need  of  help :  as  for  myself,  I  have  no  great  dependence  on 
the  promises  of  great  men ;  I  look  to  the  booksellers  for  sup- 
port ;  they  are  my  best  friends,  and  I  am  not  inclined  to  forsake 
them  for  others.  Thus,"  continues  Sir  John,  "  did  this 
idiot  in  the  affairs  of  the  world  trifle  with  his  fortunes,  and  put 
back  the  hand  that  was  held  out  to  assist  him." 

We  cannot  join  with  Sir  John  in  his  worldly  sneer  at  the 
conduct  of  Goldsmith  on  this  occasion.  While  we  admire  that 
honest  independence  of  spirit  which  prevented  him  from  ask- 
ing favors  for  himself,  we  love  that  warmth  of  affection  which 
instantly  sought  to  advance  the  fortunes  of  a  brother :  but  the 
peculiar  merits  of  Goldsmith  seem  to  have  been  little  under- 
stood by  the  Hawkinses,  the  Boswells,  and  the  other  biogra- 
phers of  the  day. 

After  all,  the  introduction  to  Northumberland  House  did  not 
prove  so  complete  a  failure  as  the  humorous  account  given  by 
Goldsmith,  and  the  cynical  account  given  by  Sir  John  Haw- 
kins, might  lead  one  to  suppose.  Dr.  Percy,  the  heir  male  of 
the  ancient  Percies,  brought  the  poet  into  the  acquaintance 
of  his  kinswoman,  the  countess,  who,  before  her  marriage  with 
the  earl,  was  in  her  own  right  heiress  of  the  House  of  North- 
umberland. "She  was  a  lady,"  says  Boswell,  ''not  only  of 
high  dignity  of  spirit,  such  as  became  her  noble  blood,  but 
of  excellent  understanding  and  lively  talents."  Under  her  au- 
spices a  poem  of  Goldsmith's  had  an  aristocratical  introduction 
to  the  world.  This  was  the  beautiful  ballad  of  the  "  Hermit," 
originally  published  under  the  name  of  "Edwin  and  Angelina." 
It  was  suggested  by  an  old  English  ballad  beginning  "  Gentle 
Herdsman,"  shown  him  by  Dr.  Percy,  who  was  at  that  time 
making  his  famous  collection,  entitled  "  Reliques  of  Ancient 
English  Poetry,"  which  he  submitted  to  the  inspection  of 
Goldsmith  prior  to  publication.  A  few  copies  only  of  the 
"Hermit"  were  printed  at  first,  with  the  following  titlepa^e : 


BISHOP    PERCY. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  Ill 

"  Edwin  and  Angelina  :  a  Ballad.  By  Mr.  Goldsmith.  Printed 
for  the  Amusement  of  the  Countess  of  Northumberland." 

All  this,  though  it  may  not  have  been  attended  with  any 
immediate  pecuniary  advantage,  contributed  to  give  Gold- 
smith's name  and  poetry  the  high  stamp  of  fashion,  so  potent 
in  England ;  the  circle  at  Northumberland  House,  however, 
was  of  too  stately  and  aristocratical  a  nature  to  be  much  to 
his  taste,  and  we  do  not  find  that  he  became  familiar  in  it. 

He  was  much  more  at  home  at  Gosfield,  the  seat  of  his 
countryman,  Robert  Nugent,  afterward  Baron  Nugent  and 
Viscount  Clare,  who  appreciated  his  merits  even  more  heartily 
than  the  Earl  of  Northumberland,  and  occasionally  made  him 
his  guest  both  in  town  and  country.  Nugent  is  described  as  a 
jovial  voluptuary,  who  left  the  Roman  Catholic  for  the  Prot- 
estant religion,  with  a  view  to  bettering  his  fortunes ;  he  had 
an  Irishman's  inclination  for  rich  widows,  and  an  Irishman's 
luck  with  the  sex ;  having  been  thrice  married  and  gained  a 
fortune  with  each  wife.  He  was  now  nearly  sixty,  with  a  re- 
markably loud  voice,  broad  Irish  brogue,  and  ready,  but  some- 
what coarse  wit.  With  all  his  occasional  coarseness  he  was 
capable  of  high  thought,  and  had  produced  poems  which 
showed  a  truly  poetic  vein.  He  was  long  a  member  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  where  his  ready  wit,  his  fearless  decision, 
and  good-humored  audacity  of  expression,  always  gained  him 
a  hearing,  though  his  tall  person  and  awkward  manner  gained 
him  the  nickname  of  Squire  Gawky,  among  the  political  scrib- 
blers of  the  day.  With  a  patron  of  this  jovial  temperament, 
Goldsmith  probably  felt  more  at  ease  than  with  those  of  higher 
refinement. 

The  celebrity  which  Goldsmith  had  acquired  by  his  poem  of 
"The  Traveller,"  occasioned  a  resuscitation  of  many  of  his 
miscellaneous  and  anonymous  tales  and  essays  from  the  va- 
rious newspapers  and  other  transient  publications  in  which 
they  lay  dormant.  These  he  published  in  1765,  in  a  collected 
form,  under  the  title  of  "  Essays  by  Mr.  Goldsmith."  "The 
following  essays,"  observes  he  in  his  preface,  "have  already 
appeared  at  different  times,  and  in  different  publications. 
The  pamphlets  in  which  they  were  inserted  being  generally 
unsuccessful,  these  shared  the  common  fate,  without  assisting 
the  booksellers'  aims,  or  extending  the  author's  reputation. 
The  public  were  too  strenuously  employed  with  their  own  fol- 
lies to  be  assiduous  in  estimating  mine ;  so  that  many  of  my 
best  attempts  in  this  way  have  fallen  victims  to  the  transient 
topic  of  the  times  —  the  Ghost  in  Cock-lane,  or  the  Siege  of 
Ticonderoga. 


112  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

"But,  though  they  have  passed  pretty  silently  into  the 
world,  I  can  by  no  means  complain  of  their  circulation.  The 
magazines  and  papers  of  the  day  have  indeed  been  liberal 
enough  in  this  respect.  Most  of  these  essays  have  been  regu- 
larly reprinted  twice  or  thrice  a  year,  and  conveyed  to  the 
public  through  the  kennel  of  some  engaging  compilation.  If 
there  be  a  pride  in  multiplied  editions,  I  have  seen  some  of  my 
labors  sixteen  times  reprinted,  and  claimed  by  different  parents 
as  their  own.  I  have  seen  them  flourished  at  the  beginning 
with  praise,  and  signed  at  the  end  with  the  names  of  Philautos, 
Philalethes,  Phileleutheros,  and  Philanthropes.  It  is  time, 
however,  at  last  to  vindicate  my  claims ;  and  as  these  enter- 
tainers of  the  public,  as  they  call  themselves,  have  partly  lived 
upon  me  for  some  years,  let  me  now  try  if  I  cannot  live  a  little 
upon  myself." 

It  was  but  little,  in  fact,  for  all  the  pecuniary  emolument  he 
received  from  the  volume  was  twenty  guineas.  It  had  a  good 
circulation,  however,  was  translated  into  French,  and  has 
maintained  its  stand  among  the  British  classics. 

Notwithstanding  that  the  reputation  of  Goldsmith  had 
greatly  risen,  his  finances  were  often  at  a  very  low  ebb,  owing 
to  his  heedlessness  as  to  expense,  his  liability  to  be  imposed 
upon,  and  a  spontaneous  and  irresistible  propensity  to  give  to 
every  one  who  asked.  The  very  rise  in  his  reputation  had 
increased  these  embarrassments.  It  had  enlarged  his  ejrcle  of 
needy  acquaintances,  authors  poorer  in  pocket  than  himself, 
who  came  in  search  of  literary  counsel ;  which  generally  meant 
a  guinea  and  a  breakfast.  And  then  his  Irish  hangers-on ! 
"Our  Doctor,"  said  one  of  these  sponges,  "had  a  constant 
levee  of  his  distressed  countrymen,  whose  wants,  as  far  as  he 
was  able,  he  always  relieved  ;  and  he  has  often  been  known  to 
leave  himself  without  a  guinea,  in  order  to  supply  the  neces- 
sities of  others." 

This  constant  drainage  of  the  purse  therefore  obliged  him  to 
andertake  all  jobs  proposed  by  the  booksellers,  and  to  keep  up 
a  kind  of  running  account  with  Mr.  Newbery ;  who  was  his 
banker  on  all  occasions,  sometimes  for  pounds,  sometimes  for 
shillings  ;  but  who  was  a  rigid  accountant,  and  took  care  to  be 
amply  repaid  in  manuscript.  Many  effusions  hastily  penned 
in  these  moments  of  exigency,  were  published  anonymously, 
and  never  claimed.  Some  of  them  have  but  recently  been 
traced  to  his  pen ;  while  of  many  the  true  authorship  will 
probably  never  be  discovered.  Among  others  it  is  suggested, 
and  with  great  probability,  that  he  wrote  for  Mr.  Newbery  the 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  113 

famous  nursery  story  of  "  Goody  Two  Shoes,"  which  appeared 
in  1765,  at  a  moment  when  Goldsmith  was  scribbling  for  New- 
bery,  and  much  pressed  for  funds.  Several  quaint  little  tales 
introduced  in  his  Essays  show  that  he  had  a  turn  for  this 
species  of  mock  history ;  and  the  advertisement  and  titlepage 
bear  the  stamp  of  his  sly  and  playful  humor. 

"  We  are  desired  to  give  notice,  that  there  is  in  the  press,  and 
speedily  will  be  published,  either  by  subscription  or  otherwise,, 
as  the  public  shall  please  to  determine,  the  History  of  Little 
Goody  Two  Shoes,  otherwise  Mrs.  Margery  Two  Shoes ;  with 
the  means  by  which  she  acquired  learning  and  wisdom,  and, 
in  consequence  thereof,  her  estate ;  set  forth  at  large  for  the 
benefit  of  those 

"  Who,  from  a  state  of  rags  and  care, 
And  having  shoes  but  half  a  pair, 
Their  fortune  and  their  fame  should  fix, 
And  gallop  in  a  coach  and  six." 

The  world  is  probably  not  aware  of  the  ingenuity,  humor, 
good  sense,  and  sly  satire  contained  in  many  of  the  old  Eng- 
lish nursery-tales.  They  have  evidently  been  the  sportive  pro- 
ductions of  able  writers,  who  would  not  trust  their  names  to 
productions  that  might  be  considered  beneath  their  dignity. 
The  ponderous  works  on  which  they  relied  for  immortality 
have  perhaps  sunk  into  oblivion,  and  carried  their  names  down 
with  them ;  while  their  unacknowledged  offspring,  Jack  the 
Giant  Killer,  Giles  Gingerbread,  and  Tom  Thumb,  flourish  in 
wide-spreading  and  never-ceasing  popularity. 

As  Goldsmith  had  now  acquired  popularity  and  an  extensive 
acquaintance,  he  attempted,  with  the  advice  of  his  friends,  to 
procure  a  more  regular  and  ample  support  by  resuming  the 
medical  profession.  He  accordingly  launched  himself  upon 
the  town  in  style  ;  hired  a  man-servant ;  replenished  his  wardrobe 
at  considerable  expense,  and  appeared  in  a  professional  wig  and 
cane,  purple  silk  small-clothes,  and  a  scarlet  roquelaure  but- 
toned to  the  chin :  a  fantastic  garb,  as  we  should  think  at  the 
present  day,  but  not  unsuited  to  the  fashion  of  the  times. 

With  his  sturdy  little  person  thus  arrayed  in  the  unusual 
magnificence  of  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  his  scarlet  i-oquelaure 
flaunting  from  his  shoulders,  he  used  to  strut  into  the  apart- 
ments of  his  patients  swaying  his  three-cornered  hat  in  one 
hand  and  his  medical  sceptre,  the  cane,  in  the  other,  and  as- 
suming an  air  of  gravity  and  importance  suited  to  the  solem- 
nity of  his  wig ;  at  least,  such  is  the  picture  given  of  him  by 


114  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

the  waiting  gentlewoman  who  let  him  into  the  chamber  of  one 
of  his  lady  patients. 

He  soon,  however,  grew  tired  and  impatient  of  the  duties 
and  restraints  of  his  profession  ;  his  practice  was  chiefly  among 
his  friends,  and  the  fees  were  not  sufficient  for  his  maintenance  ; 
he  was  disgusted  with  attendance  on  sick-chambers  and  capri- 
cious patients,  and  looked  back  with  longing  to  his  tavern  haunts 
and  broad  convivial  meetings,  from  which  the  dignity  and  duties 
of  his  medical  calling  restrained  him.  At  length,  on  prescrib- 
ing to  a  lady  of  his  acquaintance  who,  to  use  a  hackneyed 
phrase,  "  rejoiced  "  in  the  aristocratical  name  of  Sidebotham,  a 
warm  dispute  arose  between  him  and  the  apothecary  as  to  the 
quantity  of  medicine  to  be  administered.  The  doctor  stood  up 
for  the  rights  and  dignities  of  his  profession,  and  resented  the 
interference  of  the  compounder  of  drugs.  His  rights  and  dig- 
nities, however,  were  disregarded  ;  his  wig  and  cane  and  scarlet 
roquelaure  were  of  no  avail ;  Mrs.  Sidebotham  sided  with  the 
hero  of  the  pestle  and  mortar ;  and  Goldsmith  flung  out  of 
the  house  in  a  passion.  "  I  am  determined  henceforth,"  said  he 
to  Topham  Beauclerc,  "to  leave  off  prescribing  for  friends." 
"Do  so,  my  dear  doctor,"  was  the  reply;  "whenever  you 
undertake  to  kill,  let  it  be  only  your  enemies." 

This  was  the  end  of  Goldsmith's  medical  career. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

PUBLICATION  OF   THE   VICAR  OF   WAKEFIELD  —  OPINIONS  CONCERN- 
ING    IT  —   OF     DR.     JOHNSON  OF     ROGERS     THE     POET  —  OF 

GOETHE ITS     MERITS   EXQUISITE     EXTRACT  —  ATTACK     BY 

KENRICK  —  REPLY BOOK-BUILDING  —  PROJECT   OF   A   COMEDY. 

THE  success  of  the  poem  of  "  The  Traveller,"  and  the  popu- 
larity which  it  had  conferred  on  its  author,  now  roused  the  at- 
tention of  the  bookseller  in  whose  hands  the  novel  of  "  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  had  been  slumbering  for  nearly  two  long 
years.  The  idea  has  generally  prevailed  that  it  was  Mr.  John 
Newbery  to  whom  the  manuscript  had  been  sold,  and  much  sur- 
prise has  been  expressed  that  he  should  be  insensible  to  its  merit 
and  suffer  it  to  remain  unpublished,  while  putting  forth  various 
inferior  writings  by  the  same  author.  This,  however,  is  a  mis- 
take ;  it  was  his  nephew,  Francis  Newbery,  who  had  become 
the  fortunate  purchaser.  Still  the  delay  is  equally  unaccount- 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  115 

able.  Some  have  imagined  that  the  uncle  and  nephew  had  busi- 
ness arrangements  together,  in  which  this  work  was  included, 
and  that  the  elder  Newbery,  dubious  of  its  success,  retarded  the 
publication  until  the  full  harvest  of  ' '  The  Traveller  ' '  should  be 
reaped.  Booksellers  are  prone  to  make  egregious  mistakes  as 
to  the  merit  of  works  in  manuscript ;  and  to  undervalue,  if  not 
reject,  those  of  classic  and  enduring  excellence,  when  destitute 
of  that  false  brilliancy  commonly  called  "  effect."  In  the  pres- 
ent instance,  an  intellect  vastly  superior  to  that  of  either  of  the 
booksellers  was  equally  at  fault.  Dr.  Johnson,  speaking  of 
the  work  to  Boswell,  some  time  subsequent  to  its  publication, 
observed,  u  I  myself  did  not  think  it  would  have  had  much  suc- 
cess. It  was  written  and  sold  to  a  bookseller  before  *'  The 
Traveller,'  but  published  after,  so  little  expectation  had  the 
bookseller  from  it.  Had  it  been  sold  after  'The  Traveller,'  he 
might  have  had  twice  as  much  money  ;  though  sixty  guineas  ivas 
no  mean  price." 

Sixty  guineas  for  the  Vicar  of  "Wakefield  !  and  this  could  be 
pronounced  no  mean  price  by  Dr.  Johnson,  at  that  time  the 
arbiter  of  British  talent,  and  who  had  had  an  opportunity  of 
witnessing  the  effect  of  the  work  upon  the  public  mind  ;  for  its 
success  was  immediate.  It  came  out  on  the  27th  of  March, 
1 766  ;  before  the  end  of  May  a  second  edition  was  called  for ;  in 
three  months  more  a  third ;  and  so  it  went  on,  widening  in  a 
popularity  that  has  never  flagged.  Rogers^  the  Nestor  of  Brit- 
ish literature,  whose  refined  purity  of  taste  and  exquisite  mental 
organization  rendered  him  eminently  calculated  to  appreciate 
a  work  of  the  kind,  declared  that  of  all  the  books,  which,  through 
the  fitful  changes  of  three  generations  he  had  seen  rise  and  fall, 
the  charm  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  had  alone  continued  as  at 
first ;  and  could  he  revisit  the  world  after  an  interval  of  many 
more  generations,  he  should  as  surely  look  to  find  it  undimin- 
islu  (1.  Xor  has  its  celebrity  been  confined  to  Great  Britain. 
TTiough  so  exclusively  a  picture  of  British  scenes  and  manners, 
it  has  been  translated  into  almost  every  language,  and  every- 
where its  charm  has  been  the  same.  Gnelhe,  the  great  genius 
of  Germany,  declared  in  his  eighty-first  year,  that  it  was  his  de- 
light at  the  age  of  twenty,  that  it  had  in  a  manner  formed  a 
part  of  his  education,  influencing  his  taste  and  feelings  through- 
out life,  and  that  he  had  recently  read  it  again  from  beginning 
to  end  —  with  renewed  delight,  and  with  a  grateful  sense  of  the 
early  benefit  derived  from  it. 

It  is  needless  to  expatiate  upon  the  qualities  of  a  work  which 
has  thus  passed  from  country  to  country,  and  language  to  Ian- 


116  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

guage,  until  it  is  now  known  throughout  the  whole  reading  world, 
and  is  become  a  household  book  in  every  hand.  The  secret  of 
its  universal  and  enduring  popularity  is  undoubtedly  its  truth  to 
nature,  but  to  nature  of  the  most  amiable  kind ;  to  nature  such 
as  Goldsmith  saw  it.  The  author,  as  we  have  occasionally 
shown  in  the  course  of  this  memoir,  took  his  scenes  and  charac- 
ters in  this  as  in  his  other  writings,  from  originals  in  his  own 
motley  experience  ;  but  he  has  given  them  as  seen  through  the 
medium  of  his  own  indulgent  eye,  and  has  set  them  forth  with 
the  colorings  of  his  own  good  head  and  heart.  Yet  how  con- 
tradictory it  seems  that  this,  one  of  the  most  delightful  pictures 
ofTTome  and  homefelt  happiness,  should  be  drawn  by  a  homeless 
man  ;*that  the  most  amiable  picture  of  domestic  virtue  and  all 
"the  endearments  of  the  married  state  should  be  drawn  by  a 
bachelor,  who  had  been  severed  from  domestic  life  almost  from 
boybood ;  that  one  of  the  most  tender,  touching,  and  affecting  r 
appeals  on  behalf  of  female  loveliness  should  have  been  made 
by  a  man  whose  deficiency  in  all  the  graces  of  person  and  man- 
ner seemed  to  mark  him  out  for  a  cynical  disparager  of  the 
'sex. 

We  cannot  refrain  from  transcribing  from  the  work  a  short 
passage  illustrative  of  what  we  have  said,  and  which  within  a 
wonderfully  small  compass  comprises  a  world  of  beauty  of  im- 
agery, tenderness  of  feeling,  delicacy  and  refinement  of  thought, 
and  matchless  purity  of  style.  The  two  stanzas  which  conclude 
it,  in  which  are  told  a  whole  history  of  a  woman's  wrongs  and 
sufferings,  is,  for  pathos,  simplicity,  and  euphony,  a  gem  in  the 
language.  The  scene  depicted  is  where  the  poor  Vicar  is  gath- 
ering around  him  the  wrecks  of  his  shattered  family,  and  endeav- 
oring to  rally  them  back  to  happiness. 

"  The  next  morning  the  sun  arose  with  peculiar  warmth  for 
the  season,  so  that  we  agreed  to  breakfast  together  on  the 
honeysuckle  bank ;  where,  while  we  sat,  my  j'oungest  daughter 
at  my  request  joined  her  voice  to  the  concert  on  the  trees  about 
us.  It  was  in  this  place  my  poor  Olivia  first  met  her  seducer, 
and  every  object  served  to  recall  her  sadness.  But  that  mel- 
ancholy which  is  excited  by  objects  of  pleasure,  or  inspired  by 
sounds  of  harmony,  soothes  the  heart  instead  of  corroding  it. 
Her  mother,  too,  upon  this  occasion,  felt  a  pleasing  distress, 
and  wept,  and  loved  her  daughter  as  before.  '  Do,  my  pretty 
Olivia,'  cried  she,  'let  us  have  that  melancholy  air  your  father  . 
was  so  fond  of ;  your  sister  Sophy  has  already  obliged  us.  Do, 
child;  it  will  please  your  old  father.'  She  complied  in  a  man- 
ner so  exquisitely  pathetic  as  moved  me. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  117 

•• '  When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 

And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 

What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away? 

* « The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 
To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 
And  wring  his  bosom  —  is  to  die.'  " 

Scarce  had  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  made  its  appearance  and 
been  received  with  acclamation,  than  its  author  was  subjected 
to  one  of  the  usual  penalties  that  attend  success.  He  was  at- 
tacked in  the  newspapers.  In  one  of  the  chapters  he  had  intro- 
duced his  ballad  of  the  hermit,  of  which,  as  we  have  mentioned, 
a  few  copies  had  been  printed  some  considerable  time  previously 
for  the  use  of  the  Countess  of  Northumberland.  This  brought 
forth  the  following  article  in  a  fashionable  journal  of  the  day. 

"  To  the  Printer  of  the  St.  James's  Chronicle. 

"Sm:  In  the  Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry,  published  about 
two  years  ago,  is  a  very  beautiful  little  ballad,  called  '  A  Friar 
of  Orders  Gray.'  The  ingenious  editor,  Mr.  Percy,  supposes 
that  the  stanzas  sung  by  Ophelia  in  the  play  of  Hamlet  were 
parts  of  some  ballad  well  known  in  Shakspeare's  time,  and 
from  these  stanzas,  with  the  addition  of  one  or  two  of  his  own 
to  connect  them,  he  has  formed  the  above-mentioned  ballad ; 
the  subject  of  which  is,  a  lady  comes  to  a  convent  to  inquire  for 
her  love  who  had  been  driven  there  by  her  disdain.  She  is  an- 
swered by  a  friar  that  he  is  dead  : 

"'  No,  no,  he  is  dead,  gone  to  his  death's  bed, 
He  never  will  come  again.' 

The  lady  weeps  and  laments  her  cruelty ;  the  friar  endeavors 
to  comfort  her  with  morality  and  religion,  but  all  in  vain ;  she 
expresses  the  deepest  grief  and  the  most  tender  sentiments  of 
love,  till  at  last  the  friar  discovers  himself : 

"  '  And  lo !  beneath  this  gown  of  gray 
Thy  own  true  love  appears.' 

"  This  catastrophe  is  very  fine,  and  the  whole,  joined  with 
the  greatest  tenderness,  has  the  greatest  simplicity ;  yet,  though 
this  ballad  was  so  recently  published  in  the  Ancient  Reliques, 
Dr.  Goldsmith  has  been  hardy  enough  to  publish  a  poem  called 


118  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

'  The  Hermit,'  where  the  circumstances  and  catastrophe  are 
exactly  the  same,  only  with  this  difference,  that  the  natural  sim- 
plicity and  tenderness  of  the  original  are  almost  entirely  lost  in 
the  languid  smoothness  and  tedious  paraphrase  of  the  copy, 
which  is  as  short  of  the  merits  of  Mr.  Percy's  ballad  as  the 
insipidity  of  negus  is  to  the  genuine  flavor  of  champagne. 
"  I  am,  sir,  yours,  etc., 

"DETECTOR." 

This  attack,  supposed  to  be  by  Goldsmith's  constant  perse- 
cutor, the  malignant  Kenrick,  drew  from  him  the  following  note 
to  the  editor : 

"Sm:  As  there  is  nothing  I  dislike  so  much  as  newspaper 
controversy,  particularly  upon  trifles,  permit  me  to  be  as  con- 
cise as  possible  in  informing  a  correspondent  of  yours  that  I 
recommended  Blainville's  travels  because  I  thought  the  book 
was  a  good  one  ;  and  I  think  so  still.  I  said  I  was  told  by  the 
bookseller  that  it  was  then  first  published ;  but  in  that  it  seems 
I  was  misinformed,  and  my  reading  was  not  extensive  enough 
to  set  me  right. 

"  Another  correspondent  of  yours  accuses  me  of  having 
taken  a  ballad  I  published  some  time  ago,  from  one  by  the  in- 
genious Mr.  Percy.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  great  resem- 
blance between  the  two  pieces  in  question.  If  there  be  any, 
his  ballad  was  taken  from  mine.  I  read  it  to  Mr.  Percy  some 
years  ago ;  and  he,  as  we  both  considered  these  things  as  trifles 
at  best,  told  me,  with  his  usual  good-humor,  the  next  time  I  saw 
him,  that  he  had  taken  my  plan  to  form  the  fragments  of  Shaks- 
peare  into  a  ballad  of  his  own.  He  then  read  me  his  little 
Cento,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  and  I  highly  approved  it.  Such 
petty  anecdotes  as  these  are  scarcely  worth  printing ;  and  were 
it  not  for  the  busy  disposition  of  some  of  your  correspondents, 
the  public  should  never  have  known  that  he  owes  me  the  hint 
of  his  ballad,  or  that  1  am  obliged  to  his  friendship  and  learn- 
ing for  communications  of  a  much  more  important  nature. 
"  I  am,  sir,  yours,  etc., 

"OLIVER  GOLDSMITH." 

The  unexpected  circulation  of  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  en- 
riched the  publisher,  but  not  the  author.  Goldsmith  no  doubt 
thought  himself  entitled  to  participate  in  the  profits  of  the  re- 
peated editions;  and  a  memorandum,  still  extant,  shows  that 
be  drew  upon  Mr.  Francis  Newbery,  in  the  month  of  June,  for 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  119 

fifteen  guineas,  but  that  the  bill  was  returned  dishonored.  He 
continued  therefore  his  usual  job-work  for  the  booksellers, 
writing  introductions,  prefaces,  and  head  and  tail  pieces  for 
new  works ;  revising,  touching  up,  and  modifying  travels  and 
voyages  ;  making  compilations  of  prose  and  poetry,  and  "  build- 
ing books,"  as  he  sportively  termed  it.  These  tasks  required 
little  labor  or  talent,  but  that  taste  and  touch  which  are  the 
magic  of  gifted  minds.  His  terms  began  to  be  proportioned 
to  his  celebrity.  If  his  price  was  at  any  time  objected  to, 
"Why,  sir,"  he  would  say,  "it  may  seem  large;  but  then  a 
man  may  be  many  years  working  in  obscurity  before  his  taste 
and  reputation  are  fixed  or  estimated  ;  and  then  he  is,  as  in 
other  professions,  only  paid  for  his  previous  labors." 

He  was,  however,  prepared  to  try  his  fortune  in  a  different^/ 
walk  of  literature  from  any  he  had  yet  attempted.  We  have  A. 
repeatedly  adverted  to  his  fondness  for  the  drama ;  he  was  a  I 
frequent  attendant  at  the  theatres  ;  though,  as  we  have  shown, 
he  considered  them  under  gross  mismanagement.  He  thought, 
too,  that  a  vicious  taste  prevailed  among  those  who  wrote  for 
the  stage.  "  A  new  species  of  dramatic  composition,"  says  he, 
in  one  of  his  essays,  "has  been  introduced  under  the  name  of 
sentimental  comedy,  in  which  the  virtues  of  private  life  are 
exhibited,  rather  than  the  vices  exposed ;  and  the  distresses 
rather  than  the  faults  of  mankind  make  our  interest  in  the 
piece.  In  these  plays  almost  all  the  characters  are  good,  and 
exceedingly  generous ;  they  are  lavish  enough  of  their  tin 
money  on  the  stage  ;  and  though  they  want  humor,  have  abun- 
dance of  sentiment  and  feeling.  If  they  happen  to  have  faults 
or  foibles,  the  spectator  is  taught  not  only  to  pardon,  but  to 
applaud  them  in  consideration  of  the  goodness  of  their  hearts  ; 
so  that  folly,  instead  of  being  ridiculed,  is  commended,  and  the 
comedy  aims  at  touching  our  passions,  without  the  power  of 
being  truly  pathetic.  In  this  manner  we  are  likely  to  lose  one 
great  source  of  entertainment  on  the  stage  ;  for  while  the  comic 
poet  is  invading  the  province  of  the  tragic  muse,  he  leaves  her 
lively  sister  quite  neglected.  Of  this,  however,  he  is  no  ways 
solicitous,  as  he  measures  his  fame  by  his  profits.  .  .  . 

"  Humor  at  present  seems  to  be  departing  from  the  stage; 
and  it  will  soon  happen  that  our  comic  players  will  have  noth- 
ing left  for  it  but  a  fine  coat  and  a  song.  It  depends  upon  the 
audience  whether  they  will  actually  drive  those  poor  merry 
creatures  from  the  stage,  or  sit  at  a  play  as  gloomy  as  at  the 
tabernacle.  It  is  not  easy  to  recover  an  art  when  once  lost ; 
and  it  will  be  a  just  punishment,  that  when,  by  our  being  too 


120  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

fastidious,  we  have  banished  humor  from  the  stage,  we  should 
ourselves  be  deprived  of  the  art  of  laughing." 

Symptoms  of  reform  in  the  drama  had  recently  taken  place. 
The  comedy  of  the  Clandestine  Marriage,  the  joint  production  \ 
of  Colman  and  Garrick,  and  suggested  by  Hogarth's  inimitable 
pictures  of  "Marriage  a  la  mode,"  had  taken  the  town  by 
storm,  crowded  the  theatres  with  fashionable  audiences,  and 
formed  one  of  the  leading  literary  topics  of  the  year.  Gold- 
smith's emulation  was  roused  by  its  success.  The  comedy  was 
in  what  he  considered  the  legitimate  line,  totally  different  from 
the  sentimental  school ;  it  presented  pictures  of  real  life,  de- 
lineations of  character  and  touches  of  humor,  in  which  he  felt 
himself  calculated  to  excel.  The  consequence  was  that  in  the 
course  of  this  year  (1766),  he  commenced  a  comedy  of  the 
same  class,  to  be  entitled  the  Good-Natured  Man,  at  which  he 
diligently  wrought  whenever  the  hurried  occupation  of  "book- 
building"  allowed  him  leisure. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

SOCIAL    POSITION    OF      GOLDSMITH HIS      COLLOQUIAL      CONTESTS 

WITH   JOHNSON ANECDOTES   AND    ILLUSTRATIONS. 

THE  social  position  of  Goldsmith  had  undergone  a  material 
change  since  the  publication  of  "  The  Traveller."  Before  that 
event  he  was  but  partially  known  as  the  author  of  some  clever 
anonymous  writings,  and  had  been  a  tolerated  member  of  the 
club  and  the  Johnson  circle,  without  much  being  expected  from 
him.  Now  he  had  suddenly  risen  to  literary  fame,  and  become 
one  of  the  lions  of  the  day.  The  highest  regions  of  intellectual 
society  were  now  open  to  him  ;  but  he  was  not  prepared  to  move 
in  them  with  confidence  and  success.  Ballymahon  had  not  been 
a  good  school  of  manners  at  the  outset  of  life  ;  nor  had  his  ex- 
perience as  a  "poor  student"  at  colleges  and  medical  schools 
contributed  to  give  him  the  polish  of  society.  He  had  brought 
from  Ireland,  as  he  said,  nothing  but  his  "  brogue  and  his 
blunders,"  and  they  had  never  left  him.  He  had  travelled,  it 
is  true  ;  but  the  Continental  tour  which  in  those  days  gave  the 
finishing  grace  to  the  education  of  a  patrician  youth,  had,  with 
poor  Goldsmith,  been  little  better  than  a  course  of  literary 
vagabondizing.  It  had  enriched  his  mind,  deepened  and 
widened  the  benevolence  of  his  heart,  and  filled  his  memory 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  121 

with  enchanting  pictures,  but  it  had  contributed  little  to  dis- 
ciplining him  for  the  polite  intercourse  of  the  world.  His  life 
in  London  had  hitherto  been  a  struggle  with  sordid  cares  and 
sad  humiliations.  "  You  scarcely  can  conceive,"  wrote  he  some 
time  previously  to  his  brother,  "  how  much  eight  years  of  dis- 
appointment, anguish,  and  study  have  worn  me  down."  Several 
more  years  had  since  been  added  to  the  term  during  which  he 
had  trod  the  lowly  walks  of  life.  He  had  been  a  tutor,  an 
apothecary's  drudge,  a  petty  physician  of  the  suburbs,  a  book- 
seller's hack,  drudging  for  daily  bread.  Each  separate  walk 
had  been  beset  by  its  peculiar  thorns  and  humiliations.  It  is 
wonderful  how  his  heart  retained  its  gentleness  and  kindness 
through  all  these  trials;  how  his  mind  rose  above  the  "  mean- 
nesses of  poverty,"  to  which,  as  he  says,  he  was  compelled  to 
submit ;  but  it  would  be  still  more  wonderful,  had  his  manners 
acquired  a  tone  corresponding  to  the  innate  grace  and  refinement 
of  his  intellect.  He  was  near  forty  years  of  age  when  he  pub- 
lished "  The  Traveller,"  and  was  lifted  by  it  into  celebrity.  As 
is  beautifully  said  of  him  by  one  of  his  biographers,  "  he  has 
fought  his  way  to  consideration  and  esteem  ;  but  he  bears  upon 
him  the  scars  of  his  twelve  years'  conflict;  of  the  mean  sorrows 
through  which  he  has  passed  ;  and  of  the  cheap  indulgences  he 
has  sought  relief  and  help  from.  There  is  nothing  plastic  in  his 
nature  now.  His  manners  and  habits  are  completely  formed ; 
and  in  them  any  further  success  can  make  little  favorable 
change,  whatever  it  may  effect  for  his  mind  or  genius."  * 

We  are  not  to  be  surprised,  therefore,  at  finding  him  make 
an  awkward  figure  in  the  elegant  drawing-rooms  which  were 
now  open  to  him,  and  disappointing  those  who  had  formed  an 
idea  of  him  from  the  fascinating  ease  and  gracefulness  of  his 
poetry. 

Even  the  literary  club,  and  the  circle  of  which  it  formed  a 
part,  after  their  surprise  at  the  intellectual  flights  of  which  he 
showed  himself  capable,  fell  into  a  conventional  mode  of  judg- 
ing and  talking  of  him,  and  of  placing  him  in  absurd  and 
whimsical  points  of  view.  His  very  celebrity  operated  here  to 
his  disadvantage.  It  brought  him  into  continual  comparison 
with  Johnson,  who  was  the  oracle  of  that  circle,  and  had  given 
it  a  tone.  Conversation  was  the  great  staple  there,  and  of  this 
Johnson  was  a  master.  He  had  been  a  reader  and  thinker  from 
childhood ;  his  melancholy  temperament,  which  unfitted  him  for 
the  pleasures  of  youth,  had  made  him  so.  For  many  years  past 

1  Forster's  Goldsmith. 


122  OLIVEE   GOLDSMITH. 

the  vast  variety  of  works  he  had  been  obliged  to  consult  in  prt> 
paring  his  Dictionary,  had  stored  an  uncommonly  retentive 
memory  with  facts  on  all  kinds  of  subjects  ;  making  it  a  perfect 
colloquial  armory.  "  He  had  all  his  life,"  says  Boswell,  "habitu- 
ated himself  to  consider  conversation  as  a  trial  of  intellectual 
vigor  and  skill.  He  had  disciplined  himself  as  a  talker  as  well 
as  a  writer,  making  it  a  rule  to  impart  whatever  he  knew  in  the 
most  forcible  language  he  could  put  it  in,  so  that  by  constant 
practice  and  never  suffering  any  careless  expression  to  escape 
him,  he  had  attained  an  extraordinary  accuracy  and  command 
of  language." 

His  common  conversation  in  all  companies,  according  to  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  was  such  as  to  secure  him  universal  attention, 
something  above  the  usual  colloquial  style  being  always  expected 
from  him. 

"  I  do  not  care,"  said  Orme,  the  historian  of  Hindostan,  "  on 
what  subject  Johnson  talks  ;  but  I  love  better  to  hear  him  talk 
than  anybody.  He  either  gives  you  new  thoughts  or  a  new 
coloring." 

A  stronger  and  more  graphic  eulogium  is  given  by  Dr.  Percy. 
"  The  conversation  of  Johnson,"  says  he,  "  is  strong  and  clear, 
and  may  be  compared  to  an  antique  statue,  where  every  vein  and 
muscle  is  distinct  and  clear." 

Such  was  the  colloquial  giant  with  which  Goldsmith's  celeb- 
rity and  his  habits  of  intimacy  brought  him  into  continual  com- 
parison ;  can  we  wonder  that  he  should  appear  to  disadvantage  ? 
Conversation  grave,  discursive,  and  disputatious,  such  as  John- 
son excelled  and  delighted  in,  was  to  him  a  severe  task,  and  he 
never  was  good  at  a  task  of  any  kind.  He  had  not,  like  John- 
son, a  vast  fund  of  acquired  facts  to  draw  upon  ;  nor  a  retentive 
memory  to  furnish  them  forth  when  wanted.  He  could  not, 
like  the  great  lexicographer,  mould  his  ideas  and  balance  his 
periods  while  talking.  He  had  a  flow  of  ideas,  but  it  was  apt 
to  be  hurried  and  confused,  and  as  he  said  of  himself,  he  had 
contracted  a  hesitating  and  disagreeable  manner  of  speaking. 
He  used  to  say  that  he  always  argued  best  when  he  argued 
alone  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  could  master  a  subject  in  his  study, 
with  his  pen  in  his  hand ;  but,  when  he  came  into  company  he 
grew  confused,  and  was  unable  to  talk  about  it.  Johnson  made 
a  remark  concerning  him  to  somewhat  of  the  same  purport. 
"  No  man,"  said  he,  "  is  more  foolish  than  Goldsmith  when  he 
has  not  a  pen  in  his  hand,  or  more  wise  when  he  has."  Yet 
with  all  this  conscious  deficiency  he  was  continually  getting  in- 
volved in  colloquial  contests  with  Johnson  and  other  prime 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  123 

talkers  of  the  literary  circle.  He  felt  that  he  had  become  a 
notoriety ;  that  he  had  entered  the  lists  and  was  expected  to 
make  fight ;  so  with  that  heedlessness  which  characterized  him 
in  every  thing  else  he  dashed  on  at  a  venture  ;  trusting  to  chance 
in  this  as  in  other  things,  and  hoping  occasionally  to  make  a 
lucky  hit.  Johnson  perceived  his  haphazard  temerity,  but  gave 
him  no  credit  for  the  real  diffidence  which  lay  at  bottom.  "  The 
misfortune  of  Goldsmith  in  conversation,"  said  he,  "is  this, 
he  goes  on  without  knowing  how  he  is  to  get  off.  His  genius  is 
great,  but  his  knowledge  is  small.  As  they  say  of  a  generous 
man,  it  is  a  pity  he  is  not  rich,  we  may  say  of  Goldsmith  it  is  a 
pity  he  is  not  knowing.  He  would  not  keep  his  knowledge  to 
himself."  And,  on  another  occasion,  he  observes:  "Gold- 
smith, rather  than  not  talk,  will  talk  of  what  he  knows  himself 
to  be  ignorant,  which  can  only  end  in  exposing  him.  If  in 
company  with  two  founders,  he  would  fall  a-talking  on  the 
method  of  making  cannon,  though  both  of  them  would  soon  see 
that  he  did  not  know  what  metal  a  cannon  is  made  of."  And 
again :  "  Goldsmith  should  not  be  forever  attempting  to  shine 
in  conversation  ;  he  has  not  temper  for  it,  he  is  so  much  morti- 
fied when  he  fails.  Sir,  a  game  of  jokes  is  composed  partly  of 
skill,  partly  of  chance ;  a  man  may  be  beat  at  times  by  one  who 
has  not  the  tenth  part  of  his  wit.  Now  Goldsmith,  putting  him- 
self against  another,  is  like  a  man  laying  a  hundred  to  one,  who 
cannot  spare  the  hundred.  It  is  not  worth  a  man's  while.  A 
man  should  not  lay  a  hundred  to  one  unless  he  can  easily  spare 
it,  though  he  has  a  hundred  chances  for  him ;  he  can  get  but  a 
guinea,  and  he  may  lose  a  hundred.  Goldsmith  is  in  this  state. 
When  he  contends,  if  he  gets  the  better,  it  is  a  very  little  addi- 
tion to  a  man  of  his  literary  reputation  ;  if  he  does  not  get  the 
better,  he  is  miserably  vexed." 

Johnson  was  not  aware  how  much  he  was  himself  to  blame  in 
producing  this  vexation.  "Goldsmith,"  said  Miss  Reynolds, 
"  always  appeared  to  be  overawed  by  Johnson,  particularly 
when  in  company  with  people  of  any  consequence  ;  always  as  if 
impressed  with  fear  of  disgrace  ;  aud  indeed  well  he  might.  I 
have  been  witness  to  many  mortifications  he  has  suffered  in  Dr. 
Johnson's  company." 

It  may  not  have  been  disgrace  that  he  feared,  but  rudeness. 
The  great  lexicographer,  spoiled  by  the  homage  of  society,  was 
still  more  prone  than  himself  to  lose  temper  when  the  argument 
went  against  him.  He  could  not  brook  appearing  to  be  worsted  ; 
but  would  attempt  to  bear  down  his  adversary  by  the  rolling 
thunder  of  his  periods ;  and  when  that  failed,  would  become 


124  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

downright  insulting.  Boswell  called  it  "  having  recourse  to 
some  sudden  mode  of  robust  sophistry  ; ' '  but  Goldsmith  desig- 
nated it  much  more  happily.  "  There  is  no  arguing  with  John- 
son," said  he,  "/or  when  his  pistol  misses  Jire,  he  knocks  you 
down  with  the  but-end  of  it. ' ' l 

In  several  of  the  intellectual  collisions  recorded  by  Boswell 
as  triumphs  of  Dr.  Johnson,  it  really  appears  to  us  that  Gold- 
smith had  the  best  both  of  the  wit  and  the  argument,  and  espe- 
cially of  the  courtesy  and  good-nature. 

On  one  occasion  he  certainly  gave  Johnson  a  capital  reproof 
as  to  his  own  colloquial  peculiarities.  Talking  of  fables,  Gold- 
smith observed  that  the  animals  introduced  in  them  seldom 
talked  in  character.  "For  instance,"  said  he,  "the  fable  of 
the  little  fishes,  who  saw  birds  fly  over  their  heads,  and,  envy- 
ing them,  petitioned  Jupiter  to  be  changed  into  birds.  The 
skill  consists  in  making  them  talk  like  little  fishes."  Just  then 
observing  that  Dr.  Johnson  was  shaking  his  sides  and  laughing, 
he  immediately  added,  "  Why,  Dr.  Johnson,  this  is  not  so  easy 
as  you  seem  to  think  ;  for  if  you  were  to  make  little  fishes  talk, 
they  would  talk  like  whales." 

But  though  Goldsmith  suffered  frequent  mortifications  in  so- 
ciety from  the  overbearing,  and  sometimes  harsh,  conduct  of 
Johnson,  he  always  did  justice  to  his  benevolence.  When  royal 
pensions  were  granted  to  Dr.  Johnson  and  Dr.  Shebbeare,  a 
punster  remarked,  that  the  king  had  pensioned  a  she-bear  and 
a  he-bear;  to  which  Goldsmith  replied,  "Johnson,  to  be  sure, 
has  a  roughness  in  his  manner,  but  no  man  alive  has  a  more 
tender  heart.  He  has  nothing  of  the  bear  but  the  skin." 

Goldsmith,  in  conversation,  shone  most  when  he  least  thought 
of  shining ;  when  he  gave  up  all  effort  to  appear  wise  and 
learned,  or  to  cope  with  the  oracular  senteutiousness  of  Johnson, 
and  gave  way  to  his  natural  impulses.  Even  Boswell  could  per- 
ceive his  merits  on  these  occasions.  "  For  my  part,"  said  he, 
condescendingly,  "  I  like  very  well  to  hear  honest  Goldsmith  talk 
away  carelessly ; "  and  many  a  much  wiser  man  than  Boswell 
delighted  in  those  outpourings  of  a  fertile  fancy  and  a  generous 
heart.  In  his  happy  moods,  Goldsmith  had  an  artless  simplicity 
and  buoyant  good-humor,  that  led  to  a  thousand  amusing  blun- 
ders and  whimsical  confessions,  much  to  the  entertainment  of 
his  intimates ;  yet,  in  his  most  thoughtless  garrulity,  there  was 
occasionally  the  gleam  of  the  gold  and  the  flash  of  the  diamond. 

i  The  following  is  given  by  Boswell,  as  an  instance  of  robust  sophistry :  "  Once, 
when  I  was  pressing  upon  him  with  visible  advantage,  he  stopped  me  thus,  '  My  dear 
Boswell,  let's  have  no  more  of  this:  you'll  make  nothing  of  it.  I'd  rather  hear  you 
Whistle  a  Scotch  tune.'  " 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  125 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

SOCIAL     RESORTS  —  THE     SHILLING     WHIST     CLUB — A     PRACTICAL 

JOKE THF    WEDNESDAY   CLUB THE    "TUN    OF    MAN" THE 

PIG   BUTCHER TOM   KING HUGH   KELLY GLOVER   AND    HIS 

CHARACTERISTICS . 

THOUGH  Goldsmith's  pride  and  ambition  led  him  to  mingle 
occasionally  with  high  society,  and  to  engage  in  the  colloquial 
conflicts  of  the  learned  circle,  in  both  of  which  he  was  ill  at 
ease  and  conscious  of  being  undervalued,  yet  he  had  some  so- 
cial resorts  in  which  he  indemnified  himself  for  their  restraints 
by  indulging  his  humor  without  control.  One  of  them  was  a 
shilling  whist  club,  which  held  its  meetings  at  the  Devil  Tavern, 
near  Temple  Bar,  a  place  rendered  classic,  we  are  told,  by  a 
club  held  there  in  old  times,  to  which  "  rare  Ben  Jonson  "  had 
furnished  the  rules.  The  company  was  of  a  familiar,  uncere- 
monious kind,  delighting  in  that  very  questionable  wit  which 
consists  in  playing  off  practical  jokes  upon  each  other.  Of  one 
of  these  Goldsmith  was  made  the  butt.  Coming  to  the  club  one 
night  in  a  hackney  coach,  he  gave  the  coachman  by  mistake  a 
guinea  instead  of  a  shilling,  which  he  set  down  as  a  dead  loss, 
for  there  was  no  likelihood,  he  said,  that  a  fellow  of  this  class 
would  have  the  honesty  to  return  the  money.  On  the  next  club 
evening  he  was  told  a  person  at  the  street  door  wished  to  speak 
with  him.  He  went  forth,  but  soon  returned  with  a  radiant 
countenance.  To  his  surprise  and  delight  the  coachman  had 
actually  brought  back  the  guinea.  While  he  launched  forth  in 
praise  of  this  unlooked-for  piece  of  honesty,  he  declared  it  ought 
not  to  go  unrewarded.  Collecting  a  small  sum  from  the  club, 
and  no  doubt  increasing  it  largely  from  his  own  purse,  he  dis- 
missed the  Jehu  with  many  encomiums  on  his  good  conduct. 
He  was  still  chanting  his  praises,  when  one  of  the  club  requested 
a  sight  of  the  guinea  thus  honestly  returned.  To  Goldsmith's 
confusion  it  proved  to  be  a  counterfeit.  The  universal  burst  of 
laughter  which  succeeded,  and  the  jokes  by  which  he  was  assailed 
on  every  side,  showed  him  that  the  whole  was  a  hoax,  and  the 
pretended  coachman  as  much  a  counterfeit  as  the  guinea.  He 
was  so  disconcerted,  it  is  said,  that  he  soon  beat  a  retreat  for 
the  evening. 

Another  of  those  free  and  easy  clubs  met  on  "Wednesday 
evenings  at  the  Globe  Tavern  in  Fleet  Street.  It  was  some- 


126  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

what  in  the  style  of  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons ;  songs,  jokey, 
dramatic  imitations,  burlesque  parodies  and  broad  sallies  of 
humor,  formed  a  contrast  to  the  sententious  morality,  pedantic 
casuistry,  and  polished  sarcasm  of  the  learned  circle.  Here  a 
huge  "  tun  of  man,"  by  the  name  of  Gordon,  used  to  delight 
Goldsmith  by  singing  the  jovial  \song  of  Nottingham  Ale,  and 
looking  like  a  butt  of  it.  Here,  too,  a  wealthy  pig-butcher, 
charmed,  no  doubt,  by  the  mild  philanthropy  of  "  The  Trav- 
eller," aspired  to  be  on  the  most  sociable  footing  with  the  author, 
and  here  was  Tom  King,  the  comedian,  recently  risen  to  con- 
sequence by  his  performance  of  Lord  Ogleby  in  the  new  com- 
edy of  the  Clandestine  Marriage. 

A  member  of  more  note  was  one  Hugh  Kelly,  a  second-rate 
author,  who,  as  he  became  a  kind  of  competitor  of  Gold- 
smith's, deserves  particular  mention.  He  was  an  Irishman, 
about  twenty-eight  years  of  age,  originally  apprenticed  to  a 
staymaker  in  Dublin  ;  then  writer  to  a  London  attorney  ;  then 
a  Grub  Street  hack,  scribbling  for  magazines  and  newspapers. 
Of  late  he  had  set  up  for  theatrical  censor  and  satirist,  and,  in 
a  paper  called  Thespis,  in  emulation  of  Churchill's  Rosciad, 
had  harassed  many  of  the  poor  actors  without  mercy,  and 
often  without  wit ;  but  had  lavished  his  incense  on  Garrick, 
who,  in  consequence,  took  him  into  favor.  He  was  the  author 
of  several  works  of  superficial  merit,  but  which  had  sufficient 
vogue  to  inflate  his  vanity.  This,  however,  must  have  been 
mortified  on  his  first  introduction  to  Johnson ;  after  sitting  a 
short  time  he  got  up  to  take  leave,  expressing  a  fear  that  a 
longer  visit  might  be  troublesome.  "  Not  in  the  least,  sir," 
said  the  surly  moralist,  "  I  had  forgotten  you  were  in  the 
room."  Johnson  used  to  speak  of  him  as  a  man  who  had 
written  more  than  he  had  read. 

A  prime  wag  of  this  club  was  one  of  Goldsmith's  poor  coun- 
trymen and  hangers-on,  by  the  name  of  Glover.  He  had  origi- 
nally been  educated  for  the  medical  profession,  but  had  taken 
in  early  life  to  the  stage,  though  apparently  without  much  suc- 
cess. While  performing  at  Cork,  he  undertook,  partly  in  jest, 
to  restore  life  to  the  body  of  a  malefactor,  who  had  just  been 
executed.  To  the  astonishment  of  every  one,  himself  among 
the  number,  he  succeeded.  The  miracle  took  wind.  He  aban- 
doned the  stage,  resumed  the  wig  and  cane,  and  considered  his 
fortune  as  secure.  Unluckily,  there  were  not  many  dead  people 
to  be  restored  to  life  in  Ireland  ;  his  practice  did  not  equal  his 
expectation,  so  he  came  to  London,  where  he  continued  to  dabble 
indifferently,  and  rather  unprofitably,  in  physic  and  literature. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  127 

He  was  a  great  frequenter  of  the  Globe  and  Devil  taverns, 
where  he  used  to  amuse  the  company  by  his  talent  at  story- 
telling and  his  powers  of  mimicry,  giving  capital  imitations  of 
Garrick,  Foote,  Colman,  Sterne,  and  other  public  characters 
of  the  day.  He  seldom  happened  to  have  money  enough  to 
pay  his  reckoning,  but  was  always  sure  to  find  some  ready 
purse  among  those  who  had  been  amused  by  his  humors. 
Goldsmith,  of  course,  was  one  of  the  readiest.  It  was  through 
him  that  Glover  was  admitted  to  the  Wednesday  Club,  of 
which  his  theatrical  imitations  became  the  delight.  Glover, 
however,  was  a  little  anxious  for  the  dignity  of  his  patron, 
which  appeared  to  him  to  suffer  from  the  over-familiarity  of 
some  of  the  members  of  the  club.  He  was  especially  shocked 
by  the  free  and  easy  tone  in  which  Goldsmith  was  addressed 
by  the  pig-butcher :  "  Come,  Noll,"  would  he  say  as  he  pledged 
him,  "  here's  my  service  to  you,  old  boy !  " 

Glover  whispered  to  Goldsmith  that  he  "should  not  allow 
such  libei'ties."  "  Let  him  alone,"  was  the  reply,  "  you'll  see 
how  civilly  I'll  let  him  down."  After  a  time,  he  called  out, 
with  marked  ceremony  and  politeness,  "Mr.  B.,  I  have  the 
honor  of  drinking  your  good  health."  Alas!  dignity  was  not 
poor  Goldsmith's  forte :  he  could  keep  no  one  at  a  distance. 
"  Thank 'ee,  thank 'ee,  Noll,"  nodded  the  pig-butcher,  scarce 
taking  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth.  "  I  don't  see  the  effect  of 
your  reproof,"  whispered  Glover.  "  I  give  it  up,"  replied 
Goldsmith,  with  a  good-humored  shrug,  "I  ought  to  have 
known  before  now  there  is  no  putting  a  pig  in  the  right  way." 

Johnson  used  to  be  severe  upon  Goldsmith  for  mingling  in 
these  motley  circles,  observing,  that,  having  been  originally 
poor,  he  had  contracted  a  love  for  low  company.  Goldsmith, 
however,  was  guided  not  by  a  taste  for  what  was  low,  but  for 
what  was  comic  and  characteristic.  It  was  the  feeling  of  the 
artist ;  the  feeling  which  furnished  out  some  of  his  best  scenes 
in  familiar  life;  the  feeling  with  which  "rare  Ben  Jonson  " 
sought  these  very  haunts  and  circles  in  days  of  yore,  to  study 
"  Every  Man  in  his  Humor." 

It  was  not  always,  however,  that  the  humor  of  these  asso- 
ciates was  to  his  taste :  as  they  became  boisterous  in  their 
merriment,  he  was  apt  to  become  depressed.  "  The  company 
of  fools,"  says  he,  in  one  of  his  essays,  "  may  at  first  make  us 
smile;  but  at  last  never  fails  of  making  us  melancholy." 
"Often  he  would  become  moody,"  says  Glover,  "  and  would 
leave  the  party  abruptly  to  go  home  and  brood  over  his  mis* 
fortune." 


128  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

It  is  possible,  however, -that  he  went  home  for  quite  a  dif- 
ferent purpose ;  to  commit  to  paper  some  scene  or  passage 
suggested  for  his  comedy  of  The  Good-Natured  Man.  The 
elaboration  of  humor  is  often  a  most  serious  task  ;  and  we  have 
never  witnessed  a  more  perfect  picture  of  mental  misery  than 
was  once  presented  to  us  by  a  popular  dramatic  writer  —  still, 
we  hope,  living  —  whom  we  found  in  the  agonies  of  producing 
a  farce  which  subsequently  set  the  theatres  in  a  roar. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    GREAT   CHAM    OF     LITERATURE     AND    THE     KING —  SCENE    AT 

SIR   JOSHUA    REYNOLDS 'S GOLDSMITH   ACCUSED     OF    JEALOUSY 

—  NEGOTIATIONS  WITH   GARRICK THE  AUTHOR  AND   THE    ACT- 
OR   THEIR   CORRESPONDENCE. 

THE  comedy  of  Tlie  Good-Natured  Man  was  completed  by 
Goldsmith  early  in  1767,  and  submitted  to  the  perusal  of  John- 
son, Burke,  Reynolds,  and  others  of  the  literary  club,  by 
whom  it  was  heartily  approved.  Johnson,  who  was  seldom 
half  way  either  in  censure  or  applause,  pronounced  it  the  best 
comedy  that  had  been  written  since  The  Provoked  Husband, 
and  promised  to  furnish  the  prologue.  This  immediately 
became  an  object  of  great  solicitude  with  Goldsmith,  knowing 
the  weight  an  introduction  from  the  Great  Cham  of  literature 
would  have  with  the  public ;  but  circumstances  occurred  which 
he  feared  might  drive  the  comedy  and  the  prologue  from 
Johnson's  thoughts.  The  latter  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting 
the  royal  library  at  the  Queen's  (Buckingham)  House,  a  noble 
collection  of  books,  in  the  formation  of  which  he  had  assisted 
the  librarian,  Mr.  Bernard,  with  his  advice.  One  evening,  as 
he  was  seated  there  by  the  fire  reading,  he  was  surprised  by  the 
entrance  of  the  King  (George  III. ) ,  then  a  young  man ;  who 
sought  this  occasion  to  have  a  conversation  with  him.  The 
conversation  was  varied  and  discursive  ;  the  king  shifting  from 
subject  to  subject  according  to  his  wont ;  ' '  during  the  whole 
interview,"  says  Boswell,  "Johnson  talked  to  his  majesty 
with  profound  respect,  but  still  in  his  open,  manly  manner, 
with  a  sonorous  voice,  and  never  in  that  subdued  tone  which 
is  commonly  used  at  the  levee  and  in  the  drawing-room.  '  I 
found  his  majesty  wished  I  should  talk,'  said  he,  '  and  I  made 
it  my  business  to  talk.  I  find  it  does  a  man  good  to  be  talked 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  129 

to  by  his  sovereign.  In  the  first  place,  a  man  cannot  be  in  a 
passion  — '  "  It  would  have  been  well  for  Johnson's  colloquial 
disputants,  could  he  have  often  been  under  such  decorous 
restraint.  Profoundly  monarchical  in  his  principles,  he  retired 
from  the  interview  highly  gratified  with  the  conversation  of  the 
King  and  with  his  gracious  behavior.  "  Sir,"  said  he  to  the  li- 
brarian, "  they  may  talk  of  the  King  as  they  will,  but  he  is  the 
finest  gentleman  I  have  ever  seen."  "  Sir,"  said  he  subsequently 
to  Bennet  Langton,  "  his  manners  are  those  of  as  fine  a  gentleman 
as  we  may  suppose  Lewis  the  Fourteenth  or  Charles  the  Second." 

While  Johnson's  face  was  still  radiant  with  the  reflex  of 
royalty,  he  was  holding  forth  one  day  to  a  listening  group  at 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's,  who  were  anxious  to  hear  every  par- 
ticular of  this  memorable  conversation.  Among  other  ques- 
tions, the  King  had  asked  him  whether  he  was  writing  any 
thing.  His  reply  was  that  he  thought  he  had  already  done  his 
part  as  a  writer.  "I  should  have  thought 'so  too,"  said  the 
King,  "if  you  had  not  written  so  well."  "No  man,"  said 
Johnson,  commenting  on  this  speech,  "  could  have  made  a 
handsomer  compliment ;  and  it  was  fit  for  a  king  to  pay.  It 
was  decisive."  "  But  did  you  make  no  reply  to  this  high  com- 
pliment? "  asked  one  of  the  company.  "  No,  sir,"  replied  the 
profoundly  deferential  Johnson,  "when  the  King  had  said  it, 
it  was  to  be  so.  It  was  not  for  me  to  bandy  civilities  with  my 
sovereign." 

During  all  the  time  that  Johnson  was  thus  holding  forth, 
Goldsmith,  who  was  present,  appeared  to  take  no  interest  in 
the  royal  theme,  but  remained  seated  on  a  sofa  at  a  distance, 
in  a  moody  fit  of  abstraction ;  at  length  recollecting  himself, 
he  sprang  up,  and  advancing,  exclaimed,  with  what  Bosweil 
calls  his  usual  "frankness  and  simplicity,"  "Well,  you  ac- 
quitted yourself  in  this  conversation  better  than  I  should  have 
done,  for  I  should  have  bowed  and  stammered  through  the 
who'e  of  it."  He  afterward  explained  his  seeming  inatten- 
tion, by  saying  that  his  mind  was  completely  occupied  about 
his  play,  and  by  fears  lest  Johnson,  in  his  present  state  of 
royal  excitement,  would  fail  to  furnish  the  much-desired  pro- 
logue. 

How  natural  and  truthful  is  this  explanation.  Yet  Bosweil 
presumes  to  pronounce  Goldsmith's  inattention  affected,  and 
attributes  it  to  jealousy.  "It  was  strongly  suspected,"  says 
he,  "  that  he  was  fretting  with  chagrin  and  envy  at  the  singu- 
lar honor  Dr.  Johnson  had  lately  enjoyed."  It  needed  the 
littleness  of  mind  of  Bosweil  to  ascribe  such  pitiful  motives 


130  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

to  Goldsmith,  and  to  entertain  such  exaggerated  notions  of  the 
honor  paid  to  Dr.  Johnson. 

The  Good-Natured  Man  was  now  ready  for  performance,  but 
the  question  was  how  to  get  it  upon  the  stage.  The  affairs  of 
Covent  Garden,  for  which  it  had  been  intended,  were  thrown 
in  confusion  by  the  recent  death  of  Rich,  the  manager.  Drury 
Lane  was  under  the  management  of  Garrick,  but  a  feud,  it 
will  be  recollected,  existed  between  him  and  the  poet,  from  the 
animadversions  of  the  latter  on  the  mismanagement  of  theat- 
rical affairs,  and  the  refusal  of  the  former  to  give  the  poet  his 
vote  for  the  secretaryship  of  the  Society  of  Arts.  Times,  how- 
ever, were  changed.  Goldsmith  when  that  feud  took  place 
was  an  anonymous  writer,  almost  unknown  to  fame,  and  of  no 
circulation  in  society. 

Now  he  had  become  a  literary  lion ;  he  was  a  member  of 
the  Literary  Club ;  he  was  the  associate  of  Johnson,  Burke, 
Topham  Beauclerc,  and  other  magnates  —  in  a  word,  he  had 
risen  to  consequence  in  the  public  eye,  and  of  course  was  of 
consequence  in  the  eyes  of  David  Garrick.  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds saw  the  lurking  scruples  of  pride  existing  between  the 
author  and  actor,  and  thinking  it  a  pity  that  two  men  of  such 
congenial  talents,  and  who  might  be  so  serviceable  to  each 
other,  should  be  kept  asunder  by  a  wornout  pique,  exerted  his 
friendly  offices  tc  bring  them  together.  The  meeting  took 
place  in  Reynolds's  house  in  Leicester  Square.  Garrick,  how- 
ever, could  not  entirely  put  off  the  mock  majesty  of  the  stage  ; 
he  meant  to  be  civil,  but  he  was  rather  too  gracious  and  con- 
descending. Tom  Davies,  in  his  "Life  of  Garrick,"  gives 
an  amusing  picture  of  the  coming  together  of  these  punctili- 
ous parties.  "The  manager,"  says  he,  "was  fully  conscious 
of  his  (Goldsmith's)  merit,  and  perhaps  more  ostentatious  of 
his  abilities  to  serve  a  dramatic  author  than  became  a  man 
of  his  prudence ;  Goldsmith  was,  on  his  side,  as  fully  persuaded 
of  his  own  importance  and  independent  greatness.  Mr.  Gar- 
rick, who  had  so  long  been  treated  with  the  complimentary 
language  paid  to  a  successful  patentee  and  admired  actor,  ex- 
pected that  the  writer  would  esteem  the  patronage  of  his  play 
a  favor ;  Goldsmith  rejected  all  ideas  of  kindness  in  a  bargain 
that  was  intended  to  be  of  mutual  advantage  to  both  parties, 
and  in  this  he  was  certainly  justifiable ;  Mr.  Garrick  could 
reasonably  expect  no  thanks  for  the  acting  a  new  play,  which 
he  would  have  rejected  if  he  had  not  been  convinced  it  would 
amply  reward  his  pains  and  expense.  I  believe  the  manager 
was  willing  to  accept  the  play,  but  he  wished  to  be  courted  to 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  131 

it ;  and  the  doctor  was  not  disposed  to  purchase  his  friendship 
by  the  resignation  of  his  sincerity."  They  separated,  however, 
w'ith  an  understanding  on  the  part  of  Goldsmith  that  his  play 
would  be  acted.  The  conduct  of  Garrick  subsequently  proved 
evasive,  not  through  any  lingerings  of  past  hostility,  but  from 
habitual  indecision  in  matters  of  the  kind,  and  from  real  scru- 
ples of  delicacy.  He  did  not  think  the  piece  likely  to  succeed 
on  the  stage,  and  avowed  that  opinion  to  Reynolds  and  John- 
son ;  but  hesitated  to  say  as  much  to  Goldsmith,  through  fear 
of  wounding  his  feelings.  A  further  misunderstanding  was 
the  result  of  this  want  of  decision  and  frankness ;  repeated 
interviews  and  some  correspondence  took  place  without  bring- 
ing matters  to  a  point,  and  in  the  mean  time  the  theatrical  sea- 
son passed  away. 

Goldsmith's  pocket,  never  well  supplied,  suffered  grievously 
by  this  delay,  and  he  considered  himself  entitled  to  call  upon 
the  manager,  who  still  talked  of  acting  the  play,  to  advance 
him  forty  pounds  upon  a  note  of  the  younger  Newbery.  Gar- 
rick  readily  complied,  but  subsequently  suggested  certain  im- 
portant alterations  in  the  comedy  as  indispensable  to  its 
success ;  these  were  indignantly  rejected  by  the  author,  but 
pertinaciously  insisted  on  by  the  manager.  Garrick  proposed 
to  leave  the  matter  to  the  arbitration  of  Whitehead,  the  lau- 
reate, who  officiated  as  his  "  reader"  and  elbow  critic.  Gold- 
smith was  more  indignant  than  ever,  and  a  violent  dispute 
ensued,  which  was  only  calmed  by  the  interference  of  Burke 
and  Reynolds. 

Just  at  this  time  order  came  out  of  confusion  in  the  affairs  of 
Covent  Garden.  A  pique  having  risen  between  Colman  and 
Garrick,  in  the  course  of  their  joint  authorship  of  The  Clandes- 
tine Marriage,  the  former  had  become  manager  and  part  pro- 
prietor of  Covent  Garden,  and  was  preparing  to  open  a  powerful 
competition  with  his  former  colleague.  On  hearing  of  this, 
Goldsmith  made  overtures  to  Colman ;  who,  without  waiting 
to  consult  his  fellow  proprietors,  who  were  absent,  gave  in- 
stantly a  favorable  reply.  Goldsmith  felt  the  contrast  of  this 
warm,  encouraging  conduct,  to  the  chilling  delays  and  objec- 
tions of  Garrick.  He  at  once  abandoned  his  piece  to  the 
discretion  of  Colman.  "  Dear  sir,"  says  he  in  a  letter  dated 
Temple  Garden  Court,  July  9th,  "I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
you  for  your  kind  partiality  in  my  favor,  and  your  tenderness 
in  shortening  the  interval  of  my  expectation.  That  the  play  is 
liable  to  many  objections  I  well  know,  but  I  am  happy  that 
it  is  in  hands  the  most  capable  in  the  world  of  removing 


132  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

them.  If  then,  dear  sir,  you  will  complete  your  favor  by  putting 
the  piece  into  such  a  state  as  it  may  be  acted,  or  of  direct- 
ing me  how  to  do  it,  I  shall  ever  retain  a  sense  of  your  good- 
ness to  me.  And  indeed,  though  most  probably  this  be  the 
last  I  shall  ever  write,  yet  I  can't  help  feeling  a  secret  satisfac- 
tion that  poets  for  the  future  are  likely  to  have  a  protector  who 
declines  taking  advantage  of  their  dreadful  situation ;  and 
scorns  that  importance  which  may  be  acquired  by  trifling  with 
their  anxieties." 

The  next  day  Goldsmith  wrote  to  Garrick,  who  was  at  Lich- 
field,  informing  him  of  his  having  transferred  his  piece  to 
Covent  Garden,  for  which  it  had  been  originally  written,  and 
by  the  patentee  of  which  it  was  claimed,  observing,  "As  I 
found  you  had  very  great  difficulties  about  that  piece,  I  com- 
plied with  his  desire.  ...  I  am  extremely  sorry  that  you 
should  think  me  warm  at  our  last  meeting ;  your  judgment 
certainly  ought  to  be  free,  especially  in  a  matter  which  must  in 
some  measure  concern  your  own  credit  and  interest.  I  assure 
you,  sir,  I  have  no  disposition  to  differ  with  you  on  this  or  any 
other  account,  but  am,  with  a  high  opinion  of  your  abilities, 
and  a  very  real  esteem,  Sir,  your  most  obedient  humble  servant, 
OLIVER  GOLDSMITH." 

In  his  reply,  Garrick  observed,  "I  was,  indeed,  much  hurt 
that  your  warmth  at  our  last  meeting  mistook  my  sincere  and 
friendly  attention  to  your  play  for  the  remains  of  a  former 
misunderstanding,  which  I  had  as  much  forgot  as  if  it  had 
never  existed.  What  I  said  to  you  at  my  own  house  I  now 
repeat,  that  I  felt  more  pain  in  giving  my  sentiments  than  you 
possibly  would  in  receiving  them.  It  has  been  the  business, 
and  ever  will  be,  of  my  life  to  live  on  the  best  terms  with  men 
of  genius  ;  and  I  know  that  Dr.  Goldsmith  will  have  no  reason 
to  change  his  previous  friendly  disposition  toward  me,  as  I 
shall  be  glad  of  every  future  opportunity  to  convince  him  how 
much  I  am  his  obedient  servant  and  well-wisher,  D.  GAKRICK." 


OLIVER   GOLDSMIT&.  133 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MORE  HACK  AUTHORSHIP TOM  DA  VIES   AND   THE   ROMAN   HISTORY 

CANONBURY      CASTLE POLITICAL  AUTHORSHIP PECUNIARY 

TEMPTATION DEATH    OF    NEWBERY   THE    ELDER. 

THOUGH  Goldsmith's  comedy  was  now  in  train  to  be  per- 
formed, it  could  not  be  brought  out  before  Christmas ;  in  the 
mean  time,  he  must  live.  Again,  therefore,  he  had  to  resort  to 
literary  jobs  for  his  daily  support.  These  obtained  for  him 
petty  occasional  sums,  the  largest  of  which  was  ten  pounds, 
from  the  elder  Newbery,  for  an  historical  compilation ;  but 
this  scanty  rill  of  quasi  patronage,  so  sterile  in  its  products, 
was  likely  soon  to  cease ;  Newbery  being  too  ill  to  attend  to 
business,  and  having  to  transfer  the  whole  management  of  it 
to  his  nephew. 

At  this  time  Tom  Davies,  the  sometime  Roscius,  sometime 
bibliopole,  stepped  forward  to  Goldsmith's  relief,  and  proposed 
that  he  should  undertake  an  easy  popular  history  of  Rome  in 
two  volumes.  An  arrangement  was  soon  made.  Goldsmith 
undertook  to  complete  it  in  two  years,  if  possible,  for  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  guineas,  and  forthwith  set  about  his  task  with 
cheerful  alacrity.  As  usual,  he  sought  a  rural  retreat  during 
the  summer  months,  where  he  might  alternate  his  literary 
labors  with  strolls  about  the  green  fields.  "  Merry  Islington  " 
was  again  his  resort,  but  he  now  aspired  to  better  quarters 
than  formerly,  and  engaged  the  chambers  occupied  occasion- 
ally by  Mr.  Newbery  in  Canonbury  House,  or  Castle  as  it  is 
popularly  called.  This  had  been  a  hunting  lodge  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  in  whose  time  it  was  surrounded  by  parks  and  for- 
ests. In  Goldsmith's  day,  nothing  remained  of  it  but  an  old 
brick  tower ;  it  was  still  in  the  country,  amid  rural  scenery, 
and  was  a  favorite  nestling-place  of  authors,  publishers,  and 
others  of  the  literary  order.1  A  number  of  these  he  had  for 
fellow  occupants  of  the  castle ;  and  they  formed  a  temporary 

1  See  on  the  distant  slope,  majestic  shows 
Old  Canonbury's  tower,  an  ancient  pile 
To  various  fates  assigned :  and  where  by  turns 
Meanness  and  grandeur  have  alternate  reigu'd; 
Thither,  in  latter  days,  hath  genius  fled 
From  yonder  city,  to  respire  and  die. 
There  the  sweet  bard  of  Auburn  sat,  and  tuned 
The  plaintive  meanings  of  his  village  dirge. 
There  learned  Chambers  treasured  lore  for  men, 
And  Newbery  there  his  A  B  C's  for  babes. 


134  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

club,  which  held  its  meetings  at  the  Crown  Tavern,  on  the 
Islington  lower  road ;  and  here  he  presided  in  his  own  genial 
style,  and  was  the  life  and  delight  of  the  company. 

The  writer  of  these  pages  visited  old  Canonbury  Castle  some 
years  since,  out  of  regard  to  the  memory  of  Goldsmith.  The 
apartment  was  still  shown  which  the  poet  had  inhabited,  con- 
sisting of  a  sitting-room  and  small  bedroom,  with  panelled 
wainscots  and  Gothic  windows.  The  quaintness  and  quietude 
of  the  place  were  still  attractive.  It  was  one  of  the  resorts  of 
citizens  on  their  Sunday  walks,  who  would  ascend  to  the  top 
of  the  tower  and  amuse  themselves  with  reconnoitring  the 
city  through  a  telescope.  Not  far  from  this  tower  were  the 
gardens  of  the  White  Conduit  House,  a  Cockney  Elysium, 
where  Goldsmith  used  to  figure  in  the  humbler  days  of  his  for- 
tune. In  the  first  edition  of  his  "  Essays  "  he  speaks  of  a  stroll 
in  these  gardens,  where  he  at  that  time,  no  doubt,  thought  him- 
self in  perfectly  genteel  society.  After  his  rise  in  the  world, 
however,  he  became  too  knowing  to  speak  of  such  plebeian 
haunts.  In  a  new  edition  of  his  "Essays,"  therefore,  the 
White  Conduit  House  and  its  garden  disappears,  and  he  speaks 
of  "  a  stroll  in  the  Park." 

While  Goldsmith  was  literally  living  from  hand  to  mouth 
by  the  forced  drudgery  of  the  pen,  his  independence  of  spirit 
was  subjected  to  a  sore  pecuniary  trial.  It  was  the  opening  of 
Lord  North's  administration,  a  time  of  great  political  excite- 
ment. The  public  mind  was  agitated  by  the  question  of  Amer- 
ican taxation,  and  other  questions  of  like  irritating  tendency. 
Junius  and  Wilkes  and  other  powerful  writers  were  attacking 
the  administration  with  all  their  force  ;  Grub  Street  was  stirred 
up  to  its  lowest  depths ;  inflammatory  talent  of  all  kinds  was 
in  full  activity,  and  the  kingdom  was  deluged  with  pamphlets, 
lampoons  and  libels  of  the  grossest  kinds.  The  ministry  were 
looking  anxiously  round  for  literary  support.  It  was  thought 
that  the  pen  of  Goldsmith  might  be  readily  enlisted.  His  hos- 
pitable friend  and  countryman,  Robert  Nugent,  politically 
known  as  Squire  Gawky,  had  come  out  strenuously  for  colo- 
nial taxation  ;  had  been  selected  for  a  lordship  of  the  board  of 
trade,  and  raised  to  the  rank  of  Baron  Nugent  and  Viscount 
Clare.  His  example,  it  was  thought,  would  be  enough  of 
itself  to  bring  Goldsmith  into  the  ministerial  ranks,  and  then 
what  writer  of  the  day  was  proof  against  a  full  purse  or  a  pen- 
sion ?  Accordingly  one  Parson  Scott,  chaplain  to  Lord  Sand- 
wich, and  author  of  Anti  Sejanus  Panurge,  and  other  political 
libels  in  support  of  the  administration,  was  sent  to  negotiate 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  135 

tvith  the  poet,  who  at  this  time  was  returned  to  town.  Dr. 
Scott,  in  after  years,  when  his  political  subserviency  had  been 
rewarded  by  two  fat  crown  livings,  used  to  make  what  he  con- 
sidered a  good  story  out  of  this  embassy  to  the  poet.  "  I  found 
him,"  said  he,  "  in  a  miserable  suit  of  chambers  in  the  Temple. 
I  told  him  my  authority :  I  told  how  I  was  empowered  to  pay 
most  liberally  for  his  exertions ;  and,  would  you  believe  it !  he 
was  so  absurd  as  to  say,  '  I  can  earn  as  much  as  will  supply  my 
wants  without  writing  for  any  party ;  the  assistance  you  offer 
is  therefore  unnecessary  to  me  ; '  — ?  and  so  I  left  him  in  his  gar- 
ret! "  Who  does  not  admire  the  sturdy  independence  of  poor 
Goldsmith  toiling  in  his  garret  for  nine  guineas  the  job,  and 
smile  with  contempt  at  the  indignant  wonder  of  the  political 
divine,  albeit  his  subserviency  was  repaid  by  two  fat  crown 
livings  ? 

Not  long  after  this  occurrence,  Goldsmith's  old  friend, 
though  frugal-handed  employer,  Newbery,  of  picture-book  re- 
nown, closed  his  mortal  career.  The  poet  has  celebrated  him 
as  the  friend  of  all  mankind  ;  he  certainly  lost  nothing  by  his 
friendship.  He  coined  the  brains  of  his  authors  in  the  times  of 
their  exigency,  and  made  them  pay  dear  for  the  plank  put  out 
to  keep  them  from  drowning.  It  is  not  likely  his  death  caused 
much  lamentation  among  the  scribbling  tribe  ;  we  may  express 
decent  respect  for  the  memory  of  the  just,  but  we  shed  tears 
only  at  the  grave  of  the  generous. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THEATRICAL     MANCEUVRING  THE     COMEDY     OF      "  FALSE     DELI- 
CACY*'  FIRST    PERFORMANCE  OF    "  THE    GOOD-NATURED    MAN" 

—  CONDUCT    OF  JOHNSON CONDUCT   OF   THE   AUTHOR  —  INTER- 
MEDDLING   OF   THE    PRESS. 

THE  comedy  of  TJie  Good-Natured  Man  was  doomed  to  ex- 
perience delays  and  difficulties  to  the  very  last.  Garrick,  not- 
withstanding his  professions,  had  still  a  lurking  grudge  against 
the  author,  and  tasked  his  managerial  arts  to  thwart  him  in  his 
theatrical  enterprise.  For  this  purpose  he  undertook  to  build 
up  Hugh  Kelly,  Goldsmith's  boon  companion  of  the  Wednes- 
day Club,  as  a  kind  of  rival.  Kelly  had  written  a  comedy 
called  False  Delicacy,  in  which  were  embodied  all  the  meretri- 
cious qualities  of  the  sentimental  school.  Garrick,  though  he 


136  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

had  decried  that  school,  and  had  brought  out  his  comedy  of 
The  Clandestine  Marriage  in  opposition  to  it,  now  lauded 
False  Delicacy  to  the  skies,  and  prepared  to  bring  it  out  at 
Drury  Lane  with  all  possible  stage  effect.  He  even  went  so 
far  as  to  write  a  prologue  and  epilogue  for  it,  and  to  touch  up 
some  parts  of  the  dialogue.  He  had  become  reconciled  to  his 
former  colleague,  Colman,  and  it  is  intimated  that  one  condition 
in  the  treaty  of  peace  between  these  potentates  of  the  realms  of 
pasteboard  (equally  prone  to  play  into  each  other's  hands  with 
the  confederate  potentates  on  the  great  theatre  of  life)  was, 
that  Goldsmith's  play  should  be  kept  back  until  Kelly's  had 
been  brought  forward. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  poor  author,  little  dreaming  of  the 
deleterious  influence  at  work  behind  the  scenes,  saw  the  ap- 
pointed time  arrive  and  pass  by  without  the  performance  of 
his  play ;  while  False  Delicacy  was  brought  out  at  Drury  Lane 
(January  23,  1768)  with  all  the  trickery  of  managerial  manage- 
ment. Houses  were  packed  to  applaud  it  to  the  echo ;  the 
newspapers  vied  with  each  other  in  their  venal  praises,  and 
night  after  night  seemed  to  give  it  a  fresh  triumph. 

While  False  Delicacy  was  thus  borne  on  the  full  tide  of  fic- 
titious prosperity,  TJie  Good-Natured  Man  was  creeping  through 
the  last  rehearsals  at  Covent  Garden.  The  success  of  the  rival 
piece  threw  a  damp  upon  author,  manager,  and  actors.  Gold- 
smith went  about  with  a  face  full  of  anxiety ;  Column's  hopes 
in  the  piece  declined  at  each  rehearsal ;  as  to  his  fellow  pro- 
prietors, they  declared  they  had  never  entertained  any.  All 
the  actors  were  discontented  with  their  parts,  excepting  Ned 
Shuter,  an  excellent  low  comedian,  and  a  pretty  actress  named 
Miss  Walford ;  both  of  whom  the  poor  author  ever  afterward 
held  in  grateful  recollection. 

Johnson,  Goldsmith's  growling  monitor  and  unsparing  casti- 
gator  in  times  of  heedless  levity,  stood  by  him  at  present  with 
that  protecting  kindness  with  which  he  ever  befriended  him  in 
time  of  need.  He  attended  the  rehearsals ;  he  furnished  the 
prologue  according  to  promise ;  he  pish'd  and  pshaw'd  at  any 
doubts  and  fears  on  the  part  of  the  author,  but  gave  him  sound 
counsel,  and  held  him  up  with  a  steadfast  and  manly  hand. 
Inspirited  by  his  sympathy,  Goldsmith  plucked  up  new  heart, 
and  arrayed  himself  for  the  grand  trial  with  unusual  care. 
Ever  since  his  elevation  into  the  polite  world,  he  had  improved 
in  his  wardrobe  and  toilet.  Johnson  could  no  longer  accuse 
him  of  being  shabby  in  his  appearance ;  he  rather  went  to  the 
other  extreme.  On  the  present  occasion  there  is  an  entry  in 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  137 

the  books  of  his  tailor,  Mr.  William  Filby,  of  a  suit  of  "  Tyrian 
bloom,  satin  grain,  and  garter  blue  silk  breeches,  £8  2s.  7rf." 
Tims  magnificently  attired,  he  attended  the  theatre  and  watched 
the  reception  of  the  play,  and  the  effect  of  each  individual 
scene,  with  that  vicissitude  of  feeling  incident  to  his  mercurial 
nature. 

Johnson's  prologue  was  solemn  in  itself,  and  being  delivered 
by  Brmsley  in  lugubrious  tones  suited  to  the  ghost  in  Hamlet, 
seemed  to  throw  a  portentous  gloom  on  the  audience.  Some 
of  the  scenes  met  with  great  applause,  and  at  such  times  Gold- 
smith was  highly  elated ;  others  went  off  coldly,  or  there  were 
slight  tokens  of  disapprobation,  and  then  his  spirits  would  sink. 
The  fourth  act  saved  the  piece ;  for  Shuter,  who  had  the  main 
comic  character  of  Croaker,  was  so  varied  and  ludicrous  in  his 
execution  of  the  scene  in  which  he  reads  an  incendiary  letter, 
that  he  drew  down  thunders  of  applause.  On  his  coming  be- 
hind the  scenes,  Goldsmith  greeted  him  with  an  overflowing 
heart ;  declaring  that  he  exceeded  his  own  idea  of  the  charac- 
ter, and  made  it  almost  as  new  to  him  as  to  any  of  the  audience. 

On  the  whole,  however,  both  the  author  and  his  friends  were 
disappointed  at  the  reception  of  the  piece,  and  considered  it  a 
failure.  Poor  Goldsmith  left  the  theatre  with  his  towering 
hopes  completely  cut  down.  He  endeavored  to  hide  his  morti- 
fication, and  even  to  assume  an  air  of  unconcern  while  among 
his  associates ;  but,  the  moment  he  was  alone  with  Dr.  John- 
son, in  whose  rough  but  magnanimous  nature  he  reposed  un- 
limited confidence,  he  threw  off  all  restraint  and  gave  way  to 
an  almost  childlike  burst  of  grief.  Johnson,  who  had  shown 
no  want  of  sympathy  at  the  proper  time,  saw  nothing  in  the 
partial  disappointment  of  overrated  expectations  to  warrant 
such  ungoverned  emotions,  and  rebuked  him  sternly  for  what 
he  termed  a  silly  affectation,  saying  that  "  No  man  should  be 
expected  to  sympathize  with  the  sorrows  of  vanity." 

When  Goldsmith  had  recovered  from  the  blow,  he,  with  his 
usual  unreserve,  made  his  past  distress  a  subject  of  amusement 
to  his  friends.  Dining,  one  day,  in  company  with  Dr.  John- 
son, at  the  chaplain's  table  at  St.  James's  Palace,  he  enter- 
tained the  company  with  a  particular  and  comic  account  of  all 
his  feelings  on  the  night  of  representation,  and  his  despair  when 
the  piece  was  hissed.  How  he  went,  he  said,  to  the  Literary 
Club ;  chatted  gayly,  as  if  nothing  had  gone  amiss  ;  and,  to  give 
a  greater  idea  of  his  unconcern,  sang  his  favorite  song  about 
an  old  woman  tossed  in  a  blanket  seventeen  times  as  high  as 
the  moon.  .  .  ,  "All  this  while,"  added  he,  "I  was  suffering 


138  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH, 

horrid  tortures,  and,  had  I  put  a  bit  in  my  mouth,  I  verily  be* 
lieve  it  would  have  strangled  me  on  the  spot,  I  was  so  exces- 
sively ill :  but  I  made  more  noise  than  usual  to  cover  all  that ; 
so  they  never  perceived  my  not  eating,  nor  suspected  the  an- 
guish of  my  heart ;  but,  when  all  were  gone  except  Johnson 
here,  I  burst  out  a-crying,  and  even  swore  that  I  would  never 
write  again." 

Dr.  Johnson  sat  in  amaze  at  the  odd  frankness  and  childlike 
self-accusation  of  poor  Goldsmith.  When  the  latter  had  come 
to  a  pause,  "All  this,  doctor,"  said  he  dryly,  "  I  thought  had 
been  a  secret  between  you  and  me,  and  I  am  sure  I  would  not 
have  said  any  thing  about  it  for  the  world."  But  Goldsmith 
had  no  secrets :  his  follies,  his  weaknesses,  his  errors  were  all 
thrown  to  the  surface ;  his  heart  was  really  too  guileless  and 
innocent  to  seek  mystery  and  concealment.  It  is  too  often  the 
false,  designing  man  that  is  guarded  in  his  conduct  and  never 
offends  proprieties. 

It  is  singular,  however,  that  Goldsmith,  who  thus  in  conver- 
sation could  keep  nothing  to  himself,  should  be  the  author  of  a 
maxim  which  would  inculcate  the  most  thorough  dissimula- 
tion. "  Men  of  the  world,"  says  he,  in  one  of  the  papers  of  the 
Bee,  "  maintain  that  the  true  end  of  speech  is  not  so  much  to 
express  our  wants  as  to  conceal  them."  How  often  is  this 
quoted  as  one  of  the  subtle  remarks  of  the  fine-witted  Talley- 
rand ! 

The  Good-Natured  Man  was  performed  for  ten  nights  in 
succession ;  the  third,  sixth,  and  ninth  nights  were  for  the 
author's  benefit ;  the  fifth  night  it  was  commanded  by  their 
majesties ;  after  this  it  was  played  occasionally,  but  rarely, 
having  always  pleased  more  in  the  closet  than  on  the  stage. 

As  to  Kelly's  comedy,  Johnson  pronounced  it  entirely  devoid 
of  character,  and  it  has  long  since  passed  into  oblivion.  Yet 
it  is  an  instance  how  an  inferior  production,  by  dint  of  puffing 
and  trumpeting,  may  be  kept  up  for  a  time  on  the  surface  of 
popular  opinion,  or  rather  of  popular  talk.  What  had  been 
done  for  False  Delicacy  on  the  stage  was  continued  by  the 
press.  The  booksellers  vied  with  the  manager  in  launching  it 
upon  the  town.  They  announced  that  the  first  impression  oi 
three  thousand  copies  was  exhausted  before  two  o'clock  on  the 
day  of  publication ;  four  editions,  amounting  to  ten  thousand 
copies,  were  sold  in  the  course  of  the  season  ;  a  public  break- 
fast was  given  to  Kelly  at  the  Chapter  Coffee  House,  and  a 
piece  of  plate  presented  to  him  by  the  publishers.  The  com- 
parative merits  of  the  two  plays  were  continually  subjects  of 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  139 

discussion  In  green-rooms,  coffee-houses,  and  other  places  where 
theatrical  questions  were  discussed. 

Goldsmith's  old  enemy,  Kenrick,  that  "  viper  of  the  press," 
endeavored  on  this  as  on  many  other  occasions  to  detract  from 
his  well-earned  fame  ;  the  poet  was  excessively  sensitive  to  these 
attacks,  and  had  not  the  art  and  self-command  to  conceal  his 
feelings. 

Some  scribblers  on  the  other  side  insinuated  that  Kelly  had 
seen  the  manuscript  of  Goldsmith's  play,  while  in  the  hands  of 
Garrick  or  elsewhere,  and  had  borrowed  some  of  the  situations 
and  sentiments.  Some  of  the  wags  of  the  day  took  a  mis- 
chievous pleasure  in  stirring  up  a  feud  between  the  two  authors. 
Goldsmith  became  nettled,  though  he  could  scarcely  be  deemed 
jealous  of  one  so  far  his  inferior.  He  spoke  disparagingly, 
though  no  doubt  sincerely,  of  Kelly's  play  :  the  latter  retorted. 
Still,  when  they  met  one  day  behind  the  scenes  of  Covent  Gar- 
den, Goldsmith,  with  his  customary  urbanity,  congratulated 
Kelly  on  his  success.  "If  I  thought  you  sincere,  Mr.  Gold- 
smith," replied  the  other,  abruptly,  "  I  should  thank  you." 
Goldsmith  was  not  a  man  to  harbor  spleen  or  ill-will,  and  soon 
laughed  at  this  unworthy  rivalship :  but  the  jealousy  and  envy 
awakened  in  Kelly's  mind  long  continued.  He  is  even  accused 
of  having  given  vent  to  his  hostility  by  anonymous  attacks  in 
the  newspapers,  the  basest  resource  of  dastardly  and  malignant 
spirits  ;  but  of  this  there  is  no  positive  proof. 


CHAPTER  xxrn. 

BURNING   THE    CANDLE    AT  BOTH  ENDS  —  FINE  APARTMENTS FINE 

FURNITURE FINE     CLOTHES  FINE     ACQUAINTANCES SHOE- 
MAKER'S    HOLIDAY    AND     JOLLY     PIGEON     ASSOCIATES    PETER 

BARLOW,  GLOVER,  AND  THE  HAMPSTEAD  HOAX POOR  FRIENDS 

AMONG   GREAT   ACQUAINTANCES. 

THE  profits  resulting  from  The  Good-Natured  Man  were  be- 
yond any  that  Goldsmith  had  yet  derived  from  his  works.  He 
netted  about  four  hundred  pounds  from  the  theatre,  and  one 
hundred  pounds  from  his  publisher. 

Five  hundred  pounds !  and  all  at  one  miraculous  draught ! 
It  appeared  to  him  wealth  inexhaustible.  It  at  once  opened  his 
heart  and  hand,  and  led  him  into  all  kinds  of  extravagance. 
The  first  symptom  was  ten  guineas  sent  to  Shuter  for  a  box 


140  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

ticket  for  his  benefit,  when  The  Good-Natured  Man  was  to  be 
performed.  The  next  was  an  entire  change  in  his  domicile. 
The  shabby  lodgings  with  Jeffs  the  butler,  in  which  he  had 
been  worried  by  Johnson's  scrutiny,  were  now  exchanged  for 
chambers  more  becoming  a  man  of  his  ample  fortune.  The 
apartments  consisted  of  three  rooms  on  the  second  floor  of  No. 
2  Brick  Court,  Middle  Temple,  on  the  right  hand  ascending  the 
staircase,  and  overlooked  the  umbrageous  walks  of  the  Temple 
garden.  The  lease  he  purchased  for  £400,  and  then  went  on  to 
furnish  his  rooms  with  mahogany  sofas,  card-tables,  and  book- 
cases ;  with  curtains,  mirrors,  and  "Wilton  carpets.  His  awk- 
ward little  person  was  also  furnished  out  in  a  style  befitting 
his  apartment;  for,  in  addition  to  his  suit  of  "Tyrian  bloom, 
satin  grain,"  we  find  another  charged  about  this  time,  in  the 
books  of  Mr.  Filby,  in  no  less  gorgeous  terms,  being  "lined 
with  silk  and  furnished  with  gold  buttons."  Thus  lodged  and 
thus  arrayed,  he  invited  the  visits  of  his  most  aristocratic  ac- 
quaintances, and  no  longer  quailed  beneath  the  courtly  eye  of 
Beauclerc.  He  gave  dinners  to  Johnson,  Reynolds,  Percy, 
Bickerstaff ,  and  other  friends  of  note ;  and  supper  parties  to 
young  folks  of  both  sexes.  These  last  were  preceded  by  round 
games  of  cards,  at  which  there  was  more  laughter  than  skill, 
and  in  which  the  sport  was  to  cheat  each  other ;  or  by  romping 
games  of  forfeits  and  blind-man's  buff,  at  which  he  enacted 
the  lord  of  misrule.  Blackstone,  whose  chambers  were  imme- 
diately below,  and  who  was  studiously  occupied  on  his  "  Com- 
mentaries," used  to  complain  of  the  racket  made  overhead  by 
his  revelling  neighbor. 

Sometimes  Goldsmith  would  make  up  a  rural  party,  com- 
posed of  four  or  five  of  his  "Jolly  Pigeon  "  friends,  to  enjoy 
what  he  humorously  called  a  "shoemaker's  holiday."  These 
would  assemble  at  his  chambers  in  the  morning,  to  partake  of 
a  plentiful  and  rather  expensive  breakfast ;  the  remains  of 
which,  with  his  customary  benevolence,  he  generally  gave  to 
some  poor  woman  in  attendance.  The  repast  ended,  the  party 
would  set  out  on  foot,  in  high  spirits,  making  extensive  ram- 
bles by  foot-paths  and  green  lanes  to  Blackheath,  Wandsworth, 
Chelsea,  Hampton  Court,  Highgate,  or  some  other  pleasant 
resort,  within  a  few  miles  of  London.  A  simple  but  gay  and 
heartily  relished  dinner,  at  a  country  inn,  crowned  the  excur- 
sion. In  the  evening  they  strolled  back  to  town,  all  the  better 
in  health  and  spirits  for  a  day  spent  in  rural  and  social  enjoy- 
ment. Occasionally,  when  extravagantly  inclined,  they  ad- 
journed from  duiner  to  drink  tea  at  the  White  Conduit  House ; 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  141 

and,  now  and  then,  concluded  their  festive  day  by  supping  at 
the  Grecian  or  Temple  Exchange  Coffee  Houses,  or  at  the  Globe 
Tavern,  in  Fleet  Street.  The  whole  expenses  of  the  day  never 
exceeded  a  crown,  and  were  oftener  from  three  and  sixpence  to 
four  shillings ;  for  the  best  part  of  their  entertainment,  sweet 
air  and  rural  scenes,  excellent  exercise  and  joyous  conversation, 
cost  nothing. 

One  of  Goldsmith's  humble  companions,  on  these  excursions, 
was  his  occasional  amanuensis,  Peter  Barlow,  whose  quaint 
peculiarities  afforded  much  amusement  to  the  company.  Peter 
was  poor  but  punctilious,  squaring  his  expenses  according  to 
his  means.  He  always  wore  the  same  garb ;  fixed  his  regular 
expenditure  for  dinner  at  a  trifling  sum,  which,  if  left  to  him- 
self, he  never  exceeded,  but  which  he  always  insisted  on  paying. 
His  oddities  always  made  him  a  welcome  companion  on  the 
"shoemaker's  holidays."  The  dinner,  on  these  occasions,  gen- 
erally exceeded  considerably  his  tariff ;  he  put  down,  however, 
no  more  than  his  regular  sum,  and  Goldsmith  made  up  the 
difference. 

Another  of  these  hangers-on,  for  whom,  on  such  occasions, 
he  was  content  to  "  pay  the  shot,"  was  his  countryman,  Glover, 
of  whom  mention  has  already  been  made,  as  one  of  the  wags 
and  sponges  of  the  Globe  and  Devil  taverns,  and  a  prime  mimic 
at  the  Wednesday  Club. 

This  vagabond  genius  has  bequeathed  us  a  whimsical  story 
of  one  of  his  practical  jokes  upon  Goldsmith,  in  the  course  of  a 
rural  excursion  in  the  vicinity  of  London.  They  had  dined  at 
an  inn  on  Hampstead  Heights,  and  were  descending  the  hill, 
when,  in  passing  a  cottage,  they  saw  through  the  open  window 
a  party  at  tea.  Goldsmith,  who  was  fatigued,  cast  a  wistful 
glance  at  the  cheerful  tea-table.  "  How  I  should  like  to  be  of 
that  party,"  exclaimed  he.  "Nothing  more  easy,"  replied 
Glover,  "  allow  me  to  introduce  you."  So  saying,  he  entered 
the  house  with  an  air  of  the  most  perfect  familiarity,  though 
an  utter  stranger,  and  was  followed  by  the  unsuspecting  Gold- 
smith, who  supposed,  of  course,  that  he  was  a  friend  of  the 
family.  The  owner  of  the  house  rose  on  the  entrance  of  the 
strangers.  The  undaunted  Glover  shook  hands  with  him  in 
the  most  cordial  manner  possible,  fixed  his  eye  on  one  of  the 
company  who  had  a  peculiarly  good-natured  physiognomy, 
muttered  something  like  a  recognition,  and  forthwith  launched 
into  an  amusing  story,  invented  at  the  moment,  of  something 
which  he  pretended  had  occurred  upon  the  road.  The  host 
supposed  the  new-comers  were  friends  of  his  guests  ;  the  guests 


142  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

that  they  were  friends  of  the  host.  Glover  did  not  give  them 
time  to  find  out  the  truth.  He  followed  one  droll  story  with 
another ;  brought  his  powers  of  mimicry  into  play,  and  kept 
the  company  in  a  roar.  Tea  was  offered  and  accepted  ;  an  hour 
went  off  in  the  most  sociable  manner  imaginable,  at  the  end  of 
which  Glover  bowed  himself  and  his  companion  out  of  the 
house  with  many  facetious  last  words,  leaving  the  host  and 
his  company  to  compare  notes,  and  to  find  out  what  an  im- 
pudent intrusion  they  had  experienced. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  dismay  and  vexation  of  Goldsmith 
when  triumphantly  told  by  Glover  that  it  was  all  a  hoax,  and 
that  he  did  not  know  a  single  soul  in  the  house.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  return  instantly  and  vindicate  himself  from  all 
participation  in  the  jest ;  but  a  few  words  from  his  free  and 
easy  companion  dissuaded  him.  "Doctor,"  said  he,  coolly, 
"  we  are  unknown  ;  you  quite  as  much  as  I ;  if  you  return  and 
tell  the  story,  it  will  be  in  the  newspapers  to-morrow ;  nay, 
upon  recollection,  I  remember  in  one  of  their  offices  the  face  of 
that  squinting  fellow  who  sat  in  the  corner  as  if  he  was  treas- 
uring up  my  stories  for  future  use,  and  we  shall  be  sure  of 
being  exposed  ;  let  us  therefore  keep  our  own  counsel." 

This  story  was  frequently  afterward  told  by  Glover,  with  rich 
dramatic  effect,  repeating  and  exaggerating  the  conversation, 
and  mimicking,  in  ludicrous  style,  the  embarrassment,  surprise, 
and  subsequent  indignation  of  Goldsmith. 

It  is  a  trite  saying  that  a  wheel  cannot  run  in  two  ruts  ;  nor 
a  man  keep  two  opposite  sets  of  intimates.  Goldsmith  some- 
times found  his  old  friends  of  the  "  Jolly  Pigeon  "  order  turning 
up  rather  awkwardly  when  he  was  in  company  with  his  new 
aristocratic  acquaintances.  He  gave  a  whimsical  account  of 
the  sudden  apparition  of  one  of  them  at  his  gay  apartments  in 
the  Temple,  who  may  have  been  a  welcome  visitor  at  his 
squalid  quarters  in  Green  Arbor  Court.  "  How  do  you  think 
he  served  me?  "  said  he  to  a  friend.  "  Why,  sir,  after  staying 
away  two  years,  he  came  one  evening  into  my  chambers,  half 
drunk,  as  I  was  taking  a  glass  of  wine  with  Topham  Beauclerc 
and  General  Oglethorpe ;  and  sitting  himself  down,  with  most 
intolerable  assurance  inquired  after  my  health  and  literary 
pursuits,  as  if  we  were  upon  the  most  friendly  footing.  I  was 
at  first  so  much  ashamed  of  ever  having  known  such  a  fellow, 
that  I  stifled  my  resentment,  and  drew  him  into  a  conversation 
on  such  topics  as  I  knew  he  could  talk  upon  ;  in  which,  to  do 
him  justice,  he  acquitted  himself  very  reputably  ;  when  all  of 
a  sudden,  as  if  recollecting  something,  he  pulled  two  papers 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  143 

out  of  his  pocket,  which  he  presented  to  me  with  great  cere- 
mony, saying,  "  Here,  my  dear  friend,  is  a  quarter  of  a  pound 
of  tea,  and  a  half  pound  of  sugar,  I  have  brought  you ;  for 
though  it  is  not  in  my  power  at  present  to  pay  you  the  two 
guineas  you  so  generously  lent  me,  you,  nor  any  man  else, 
shall  ever  have  it  to  say  that  I  want  gratitude.'  This,"  added 
Goldsmith,  "  was  too  much.  I  could  no  longer  keep  in  my 
feelings,  but  desired  him  to  turn  out  of  my  chambers  directly  ; 
which  he  very  coolly  did,  taking  up  his  tea  and  sugar ;  and  I 
never  saw  him  afterward." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

REDUCED    AGAIN   TO    BOOK-BUILDING RURAL   RETREAT   AT   SHOE- 
MAKER'S   PARADISE DEATH  OF    HENRY  GOLDSMITH TRIBUTES 

TO    HIS    MEMORY   IN    "THE   DESERTED    VILLAGE." 

THE  heedless  expenses  of  Goldsmith,  as  may  easily  be  sup- 
posed, soon  brought  him  to  the  end  of  his  "  prize  money,"  but 
when  his  purse  gave  out  he  drew  upon  futurity,  obtaining 
advances  from  his  booksellers  and  loans  from  his  friends  in  the 
confident  hope  of  soon  turning  up  another  trump.  The  debts 
which  he  thus  thoughtlessly  incurred  in  consequence  of  a 
transient  gleam  of  prosperity  embarrassed  him  for  the  rest  of 
his  life  ;  so  that  the  success  of  the  Good-Natured  Man  may  be 
said  to  have  been  ruinous  to  him. 

He  was  soon  obliged  to  resume  his  old  craft  of  book-building, 
and  set  about  his  History  of  Rome,  undertaken  for  Davies. 

It  was  his  custom,  as  we  have  shown,  during  the  summer 
time,  when  pressed  by  a  multiplicity  of  literary  jobs,  or  urged 
to  the  accomplishment  of  some  particular  task,  to  take  country 
lodgings  a  few  miles  from  town,  generally  on  the  Harrow  or 
Edgeware  roads,  and  bury  himself  there  for  weeks  and  months 
together.  Sometimes  he  would  remain  closely  occupied  in  his 
room,  at  other  times  he  would  stroll  out  along  the  lanes  antf 
hedge-rows,  and  taking  out  paper  and  pencil,  note  down 
thoughts  to  be  expanded  and  connected  at  home.  His  summer 
retreat  for  the  present  year,  1768,  was  a  little  cottage  with  a 
garden,  pleasantly  situated  about  eight  miles  from  town  on  the 
Edgeware  road.  He  took  it  in  conjunction  with  a  Mr.  Edmund 
Botts,  a  barrister  and  man  of  letters,  his  neighbor  in  the  Tem- 
ple, having  rooms  immediately  opposite  him  on  the  same  floor. 


144  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

They  had  become  cordial  intimates,  and  Botts  was  one  of  those 
with  whom  Goldsmith  now  and  then  took  the  friendly  but 
pernicious  liberty  of  borrowing. 

The  cottage  which  they  had  hired  belonged  to  a  rich  shoe- 
maker of  Piccadilly,  who  had  embellished  his  little  domain  of 
half  an  acre  with  statues  and  jets,  and  all  the  decorations  of 
landscape  gardening ;  in  consequence  of  which  Goldsmith  gave 
it  the  name  of  The  Shoemaker's  Paradise.  As  his  fellow- 
occupant,  Mr.  Botts,  drove  a  gig,  he  sometimes,  in  an  interval 
of  literary  labor,  accompanied  him  to  town,  partook  of  a  social 
dinner  there,  and  returned  with  him  in  the  evening.  On  one 
occasion,  when  they  had  probably  lingered  too  long  at  the 
table,  they  came  near  breaking  their  necks  on  their  way 
homeward  by  driving  against  a  post  on  the  sidewalk,  while 
Botts  was  proving  by  the  force  of  legal  eloquence  that  they 
were  in  the  very  middle  of  the  broad  Edgeware  road. 

In  the  course  of  this  summer  Goldsmith's  career  of  gay- 
ety  was  suddenly  brought  to  a  pause  by  intelligence  of  the 
death  of  his  brother  Henry,  then  but  forty-five  years  of  age. 
He  had  led  a  quiet  and  blameless  life  amid  the  scenes  of  his 
youth,  fulfilling  the  duties  of  village  pastor  with  unaffected 
piety ;  conducting  the  school  at  Lissoy  with  a  degree  of  in- 
dustry and  ability  that  gave  it  celebrity,  and  acquitting  him- 
self in  all  the  duties  of  life  with  uudeviating  rectitude  and  the 
mildest  benevolence.  How  truly  Goldsmith  loved  and  vener- 
ated him  is  evident  in  all  his  letters  and  throughout  his  works  ; 
in  which  his  brother  continually  forms  his  model  for  an  ex- 
emplification of  all  the  most  endearing  of  the  Christian  virtues  ; 
yet  his  affection  at  his  death  was  embittered  by  the  fear  that 
he  died  with  some  doubt  upon  his  mind  of  the  warmth  of  his 
affection.  Goldsmith  had  been  urged  by  his  friends  in  Ireland, 
since  his  elevation  in  the  world,  to  use  his  influence  with  the 
great,  which  they  supposed  to  be  all-powerful,  in  favor  of 
Henry,  to  obtain  for  him  church  preferment.  He  did  exert 
himself  as  far  as  his  diffident  nature  would  permit,  but  without 
success ;  we  have  seen  that,  in  the  case  of  the  Earl  of  North- 
umberland, when,  as  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  that  nobleman 
proffered  him  his  patronage,  he  asked  nothing  for  himself,  but 
only  spoke  on  behalf  of  his  brother.  Still  some  of  his  friends, 
ignorant  of  what  he  had  done  and  of  how  little  he  was  able  to 
do,  accused  him  of  negligence.  It  is  not  likely,  however,  that 
his  amiable  and  estimable  brother  joined  in  the  accusation. 

To  the  tender  and  melancholy  recollections  of  his  early  days 
awakened  by  the  death  of  this  loved  companion  of  his  child- 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  145 

hood,  we  may  attribute  some  of  the  most  heartfelt  passages  in 
his  "  Deserted  Village."  Much  of  that  poem,  we  are  told,  was 
composed  this  summer,  in  the  course  of  solitary  strolls  about 
the  green  lanes  and  beautifully  rural  scenes  of  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  and  thus  much  of  the  softness  and  sweetness  of  English 
landscape  became  blended  with  the  ruder  features  of  Lissoy. 
It  was  in  these  lonely  and  subdued  moments,  when  tender 
regret  was  half  mingled  with  self-upbraiding,  that  he  poured 
forth  that  homage  of  the  heart,  rendered  as  it  were  at  the 
grave  of  his  brother.  The  picture  of  the  village  pastor  in  this 
poem,  which,  we  have  already  hinted,  was  taken  in  part  from 
the  character  of  his  father,  embodied  likewise  the  recollections 
of  his  brother  Henry ;  for  the  natures  of  the  father  and  son 
seem  to  have  been  identical.  In  the  following  lines,  however, 
Goldsmith  evidently  contrasted  the  quiet,  settled  life  of  his 
brother,  passed  at  home  in  the  benevolent  exercise  of  the 
Christian  duties,  with  his  own  restless,  vagrant  career : 

"  Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  hie  place." 

To  us  the  whole  character  seems  traced  as  it  were  in  an  expia- 
tory spirit ;  as  if,  conscious  of  his  own  wandering  restlessness, 
he  sought  to  humble  himself  at  the  shrine  of  excellence  which 
he  had  not  been  able  to  practise : 

«'  At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  away, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 
Even  children  follow'd,  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile : 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  express'd, 
Their  welfare  pleas'd  him,  and  their  cares  distress'd; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 


And  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reprov'd  each  dull  delay, 
Allur'd  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way." 


146  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

DINNER  AT  BICKERSTAFF's  —  HIFFERNAN  AND  HIS  IMPECUNIOSITT 
—  KENRICK'S  EPIGRAM  —  JOHNSON'S  CONSOLATION  —  GOLD- 
SMITH'S TOILET THE  BLOOM-COLORED  COAT NEW  ACQUAINT- 
ANCES  THE  HORNECKS A  TOUCH  OF  POETRY  AND  PASSION 

THE    JESS  AMY    BRIDE. 

IN  October  Goldsmith  returned  to  town  and  resumed  his  usual 
haunts.  We  hear  of  him  at  a  dinner  given  by  his  countryman, 
Isaac  Bickerstaff,  author  of  "  Love  in  a  Village,"  "  Lionel  and 
Clarissa,"  and  other  successful  dramatic  pieces.  The  dinner 
was  to  be  followed  by  the  reading  by  Bickerstaff  of  a  new  play. 
Among  the  guests  was  one  Paul  Hiffernan,  likewise  an  Irish- 
man ;  somewhat  idle  and  intemperate ;  who  lived  nobody  knew 
how  nor  where,  sponging  wherever  he  had  a  chance,  and  often 
of  course  upon  Goldsmith,  who  was  ever  the  vagabond's  friend, 
or  rather  victim.  Hiffernan  was  something  of  a  physician,  and 
elevated  the  emptiness  of  his  purse  into  the  dignity  of  a  disease, 
which  he  termed  impecuniosity,  and  against  which  he  claimed  a 
right  to  call  for  relief  from  the  healthier  purses  of  his  friends. 
He  was  a  scribbler  for  the  newspapers,  and  latterly  a  dramatic 
critic,  which  had  probably  gained  him  an  invitation  to  the  din- 
ner and  reading.  The  wine  and  wassail,  however,  befogged 
his  senses.  Scarce  had  the  author  got  into  the  second  act  of 
his  play,  when  Hiffernan  began  to  nod,  and  at  length  snored 
outright.  Bickerstaff  was  embarrassed,  but  continued  to  read 
in  a  more  elevated  tone.  The  louder  he  read,  the  louder  Hiffer- 
nan snored  ;  until  the  author  came  to  a  pause.  "  Never  mind  the 
brute,  Bick,  but  go  on,"  cried  Goldsmith.  "He  would  have 
served  Homer  just  so  if  he  were  here  and  reading  his  own  works." 

Kenrick,  Goldsmith's  old  enemy,  travestied  this  anecdote  in 
the  following  lines,  pretending  that  the  poet  had  compared  his 
countryman  Bickerstaff  to  Homer. 

"  What  are  your  Bretons,  Romans,  Grecians, 
Compared  with  thorough-bred  Milesians ! 
Step  into  Griffin's  shop,  he'll  tell  ye 
Of  Goldsmith,  Bickerstaff,  and  Kelly    .    .    . 
And,  take  one  Irish  evidence  for  t'other, 
E'en  Homer's  self  is  but  their  foster  brother." 

Johnson  was  a  rough  consoler  to  a  man  when  wincing  under 
an  attack  of  this  kind.  "Never  mind,  sir,"  said  he  to  Gold- 
smith, when  he  saw  that  he  felt  the  sting.  "  A  man  whose 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  147 

business  it  is  to  be  talked  of  is  much  helped  by  being  attacked. 
Fame,  sir,  is  a  shuttlecock ;  if  it  be  struck  only  at  one  end  of 
the  room,  it  will  soon  fall  to  the  ground  ;  to  keep  it  up,  it  must 
be  struck  at  both  ends." 

Bickerstaff ,  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  speaking,  was  in  high 
vogue,  the  associate  of  the  first  wits  of  the  day ;  a  few  years 
afterward  he  was  obliged  to  fly  the  country  to  escape  the  punish- 
ment of  an  infamous  crime.  Johnson  expressed  great  astonish- 
ment at  hearing  the  offence  for  which  he  had  fled.  "  Why,  sir," 
said  Thrale  ;  "  he  had  long  been  a  suspected  man."  Perhaps 
there  was  a  knowing  look  on  the  part  of  the  eminent  brewer, 
which  provoked  a  somewhat  contemptuous  reply.  "  By  those 
who  look  close  to  the  ground,"  said  Johnson,  "  dirt  will  some- 
times be  seen  ;  I  hope  I  see  things  from  a  greater  distance." 

We  have  already  noticed  the  improvement,  or  rather  the 
increased  expense,  of  Goldsmith's  wardrobe  since  his  elevation 
into  polite  society.  "He  was  fond,"  says  one  of  his  contem- 
poraries, "of  exhibiting  his  muscular  little  person  in  the  gayest 
apparel  of  the  day,  to  which  was  added  a  bag- wig  and  sword." 
Thus  arrayed,  he  used  to  figure  about  in  the  sunshine  in  the 
Temple  Gardens,  much  to  his  own  satisfaction,  but  to  the 
amusement  of  his  acquaintances. 

Boswell,  in  his  memoirs,  has  rendered  one  of  his  suits  for- 
ever famous.  That  worthy,  on  the  16th  of  October  in  this  same 
year,  gave  a  dinner  to  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  Reynolds,  Garrick, 
Murphy,  Bickerstaff,  and  Davies.  Goldsmith  was  generally  apt 
to  bustle  in  at  the  last  moment,  when  the  guests  were  taking 
their  seats  at  table,  but  on  this  occasion  he  was  unusually  early. 
While  waiting  for  some  lingerers  to  arrive,  "  he  strutted  about," 
says  Boswell,  "  bragging  of  his  dress,  and,  I  believe,  was  seri- 
ously vain  of  it,  for  his  mind  was  undoubtedly  prone  to  such 
impressions.  '  Come,  come,'  said  Garrick,  '  talk  no  more  of 
that.  You  are  perhaps  the  worst  —  eh,  eh  ? '  Goldsmith  was 
eagerly  attempting  to  interrupt  him,  when  Garrick  went  on, 
laughing  ironically,  '  Nay,  you  will  always  look  like  a  gentle- 
man ;  but  I  am  talking  of  your  being  well  or  ill  dressed.'  '  Well, 
let  me  tell  you,'  said  Goldsmith,  '  when  the  tailor  brought  home 
my  bloom-colored  coat,  he  said,  "  Sir,  I  have  a  favor  to  beg  of 
you ;  when  anybody  asks  you  who  made  your  clothes,  be  pleased 
to  mention  John  Filby,  at  the  Harrow,  in  Water  Lane." ' 
'Why,  sir,'  cried  Johnson,  'that  was  because  he  knew  the 
strange  color  would  attract  crowds  to  gaze  at  it,  and  thus  they 
might  hear  of  him,  and  see  how  well  he  could  make  a  coat  of  so 
absurd  a  color.'  " 


148  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

But  though  Goldsmith  might  permit  this  raillery  on  the  part 
of  his  friends,  he  was  quick  to  resent  any  personalities  of  the 
kind  from  strangers.  As  he  was  one  day  walking  the  Strand 
in  grand  array  with  bag-wig  and  sword,  he  excited  the  merri- 
ment of  two  coxcombs,  one  of  whom  called  to  the  other  to 
"  look  at  that  fly  with  a  long  pin  stuck  through  it."  Stung 
to  the  quick,  Goldsmith's  first  retort  was  to  caution  the  passers- 
by  to  be  on  their  guard  against  "  that  brace  of  disguised  pick- 
pockets "  —  his  next  was  to  step  into  the  middle  of  the  street, 
where  there  was  room  for  action,  half  draw  his  sword,  and 
beckon  the  joker,  who  was  armed  in  like  manner,  to  follow  him. 
This  was  literally  a  war  of  wit  which  the  other  had  not  antici- 
pated. He  had  no  inclination  to  push  the  joke  to  such  an  ex- 
treme, but,  abandoning  the  ground,  sneaked  off  with  his  brother 
wag  amid  the  hootings  of  the  spectators. 

This  proneness  to  finery  in  dress,  however,  which  Boswell 
and  others  of  Goldsmith's  contemporaries,  who  did  not  under- 
stand the  secret  plies  of  his  character,  attributed  to  vanity, 
arose,  we  are  convinced,  from  a  widely  different  motive.  It 
was  from  a  painful  idea  of  his  own  personal  defects,  which  had 
been  cruelly  stamped  upon  his  mind  in  his  boyhood  by  the  sneers 
and  jeers  of  his  playmates,  and  had  been  ground  deeper  into 
it  by  rude  speeches  made  to  him  in  every  step  of  his  struggling 
career,  until  it  had  become  a  constant  cause  of  awkwardness 
and  embarrassment.  This  he  had  experienced  the  more  sensibly 
since  his  reputation  had  elevated  him  into  polite  society ;  and  he 
was  constantly  endeavoring  by  the  aid  of  dress  to  acquire  that 
personal  acceptability,  if  we  may  use  the  phrase,  which  nature 
had  denied  him.  If  ever  he  betrayed  a  little  self-complacency 
on  first  turning  out  in  a  new  suit,  it  may  perhaps  have  been  be- 
cause he  felt  as  if  he  had  achieved  a  triumph  over  his  ugliness. 

There  were  circumstances  too  about  the  time  of  which  we  are 
treating  which  may  have  rendered  Goldsmith  more  than  usually 
attentive  to  his  personal  appearance.  He  had  recently  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  most  agreeable  family  from  Devonshire,  which 
he  met  at  the  house  of  his  friend,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  It  con- 
sisted of  Mrs.  Horneck,  widow  of  Captain  Kane  Horneck  ;  two 
daughters,  seventeen  and  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  an  only 
son,  Charles,  the  Captain  in  Lace,  as  his  sisters  playfully  and 
somewhat  proudly  called  him,  he  having  lately  entered  the 
Guards.  The  daughters  are  described  as  uncommonly  beauti- 
ful, intelligent,  sprightly,  and  agreeable.  Catherine,  the  eldest,, 
went  among  her  friends  by  the  name  of  Little  Comedy,  indica- 
tive, very  probably,  of  her  disposition.  She  was  engaged  to 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  149 

William  Henry  Bunbury,  second  son  of  a  Suffolk  baronet.  The 
hand  and  heart  of  her  sister  Mary  were  yet  unengaged,  although 
she  bore  the  by-name  among  her  friends  of  the  Jessamy  Bride. 
This  family  was  prepared,  by  their  intimacy  with  Reynolds  and 
his  sister,  to  appreciate  the  merits  of  Goldsmith.  The  poet  had 
always  been  a  chosen  friend  of  the  eminent  painter,  and  Miss 
Reynolds,  as  we  have  shown,  ever  since  she  had  heard  his  poem 
of  "  The  Traveller  "  read  aloud,  had  ceased  to  consider  him 
ugly.  The  Hornecks  were  equally  capable  of  forgetting  his  per- 
son in  admiring  his  works.  On  becoming  acquainted  with  him, 
too,  they  were  delighted  with  his  guileless  simplicity,  his  buoy- 
ant good-nature  and  his  innate  benevolence,  and  an  enduring 
intimacy  soon  sprang  up  between  them.  For  once  poor  Gold- 
smith had  met  with  polite  society  with  which  he  was  perfectly 
at  home,  and  by  which  he  was  fully  appreciated ;  for  once  he 
had  met  with  lovely  women,  to  whom  his  ugly  features  were  not 
repulsive.  A  proof  of  the  easy  and  playful  terms  on  which  he 
was  with  them  remains  in  a  whimsical  epistle  in  verse,  of  which 
the  following  was  the  occasion.  A  dinner  was  to  be  given  to 
their  family  by  a  Dr.  Baker,  a  friend  of  their  mother's,  at  which 
Reynolds  and  Angelica  Kauffman  were  to  be  present.  The  young 
ladies  were  eager  to  have  Goldsmith  of  the  party,  and  their  inti- 
macy with  Dr.  Baker  allowing  them  to  take  the  liberty,  they 
wrote  a  joint  invitation  to  the  poet  at  the  last  moment.  It  came 
too  late,  and  drew  from  him  the  following  reply ;  on  the  top  of 
which  was  scrawled, '  *  This  is  a  poem  !  This  is  a  copy  of  verses  ! ' ' 


Your  mandate  I  got, 
You  may  all  go  to  pot ; 
Had  your  senses  been  right, 
You'd  have  sent  before  night  — 
Bo  tell  Horneck  and  Nesbitt, 
And  Baker  and  his  bit, 
And  Kauffman  beside, 
And  the  Jessamy  Bride, 
With  the  rest  of  the  crew, 
The  Reynoldses  too, 


Little  Comedy's  face, 
And  the  Captain  in  Lace  — 
Tell  each  other  to  rue 
Your  Devonshire  crew, 
For  sending  so  late, 
To  one  of  my  state. 
But  'tis  Reynolds's  way 
From  wisdom  to  stray, 
And  Angelica's  whim 
To  befrolic  like  him; 


But  alas!  your  good  worships,  how  could  they  be  wiser, 
When  both  have  been  spoil'd  in  to-day's  Advertisert l 


1  The  following  lines  had  appeared  in  that  day's  Advertiser,  on  the  portrait  of  Sir 
Joshua  by  Angelica  Kauffman : 

While  fair  Angelica,  with  matchless  grace, 
Paints  Conway's  burly  form  and  Stanhope's  face; 
Our  hearts  to  beauty  willing  homage  pay, 
We  praise,  admire,  and  gaze  our  souls  away. 
But  when  the  likeness  she  hath  done  for  thee, 
O  Reynolds!  with  astonishment  we  see, 
Forced  to  submit,  with  all  our  pride  we  own, 
Such  strength,  such  harmony  excelled  by  none, 
And  thou  art  rivalled  by  thyself  alone. 


150  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

It  has  been  intimated  that  the  intimacy  of  poor  Goldsmith 
with  the  Miss  Hornecks,  which  began  in  so  sprightly  a  vein, 
gradually  assumed  something  of  a  more  tender  nature,  and  that 
he  was  not  insensible  to  the  fascinations  of  the  younger  sister. 
This  may  account  for  some  of  the  phenomena  which  about  this 
time  appeared  in  his  wardrobe  and  toilet.  During  the  first  year 
of  his  acquaintance  with  these  lovely  girls,  the  tell-tale  book  of 
his  tailor,  Mr.  William  Filby,  displays  entries  of  four  or  five 
full  suits,  beside  separate  articles  of  dress.  Among  the  items 
we  find  a  green  half-trimmed  frock  and  breeches,  lined  with 
silk ;  a  queen's  blue  dress  suit ;  a  half-dress  suit  of  ratteen, 
lined  with  satin  ;  a  pair  of  silk  stocking  breeches,  and  another 
pair  of  a  bloom  color.  Alas !  poor  Goldsmith  !  how  much  of 
this  silken  finery  was  dictated,  not  by  vanity,  but  humble  con- 
sciousness of  thy  defects  ;  how  much  of  it  was  to  atone  for  the 
nncouthnesm  of  thy  person,  and  to  win  favor  in  the  eyes  of 
the  Jcseamy  Bride ! 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

GOLDSMITH    IN   THE   TEMPLE JUDGE     DAT     AND     GRATTAN  —  LA- 
BOR  AND    DISSIPATION PUBLICATION    OF    THE    ROMAN    HISTORY 

OPINIONS  OF   IT  —  HISTORY    OF  ANIMATED  NATURE TEMPLE 

ROOKERY ANECDOTES    OF   A    SPIDER. 

IN  the  winter  of  1768-69  Goldsmith  occupied  himself  at  his 
quarters  in  the  Temple,  slowly  "  building  up  "  his  Roman  His- 
tory. We  have  pleasant  views  of  him  in  this  learned  and  half- 
cloistered  retreat  of  wits  and  lawyers  and  legal  students,  in  the 
reminiscences  of  Judge  Day  of  tne  Irish  bench,  who  in  his 
advanced  age  delighted  to  recall  the  days  of  his  youth,  when  he 
was  a  Templar,  and  to  speak  of  the  kindness  with  which  he  and 
his  fellow-student,  Grattan,  were  treated  by  the  poet.  "  I  was 
just  arrived  from  college,"  said  he,  "•  full  freighted  with  aca- 
demic gleanings,  and  our  author  did  not  disdain  to  receive  from 
me  some  opinions  and  hints  toward  his  Greek  and  Roman  his- 
tories. Being  then  a  young  man,  I  felt  much  flattered  by  the 
notice  of  so  celebrated  a  person.  He  took  great  delight  in  the 
conversation  of  Grattan,  whose  brilliancy  in  the  morning  of  life 
furnished  full  earnest  of  the  unrivalled  splendor  which  awaited 
his  meridian  ;  and  finding  us  dwelling  together  in  Essex  Court, 
near  himself,  where  he  frequently  visited  my  immortal  friend, 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  151 

his  warm  heart  became  naturally  prepossessed  toward  the  asso- 
ciate of  one  whom  he  so  much  admired." 

The  judge  goes  on,  in  his  reminiscences,  to  give  a  picture  of 
Goldsmith's  social  habits,  similar  in  style  to  those  already 
furnished.  He  frequented  much  the  Grecian  Coffee-House, 
then  the  favorite  resort  of  the  Irish  and  Lancashire  Templars. 
He  delighted  in  collecting  his  friends  around  him  at  evening 
parties  at  his  chambers,  where  he  entertained  them  with  a 
cordial  and  unostentatious  hospitality.  "  Occasionally,"  adds 
the  judge,  "  he  amused  them  with  his  flute,  or  with  whist, 
neither  of  which  he  played  well,  particularly  the  latter,  butv 
on  losing  his  money,  he  never  lost  his  temper.  In  a  run  of  bad 
luck  and  worse  play,  he  would  fling  his  cards  upon  the  floor  and 
exclaim,  Byefore  George,  I  ought  forever  to  renounce  thee, 
fickle,  faithless  Fortune. ' ' 

The  judge  was  aware  at  the  time  that  all  the  learned  labor  of 
poor  Goldsmith  upon  his  Roman  Histoiy  was  mere  hack  work 
to  recruit  his  exhausted  finances.  "  His  purse  replenished," 
adds  he,  "  by  labors  of  this  kind,  the  season  of  relaxation  and 
pleasure  took  its  turn,  in  attending  the  theatres,  Ranelagh, 
Vauxhall,  and  other  scenes  of  gayety  and  amusement.  When- 
ever his  funds  were  dissipated  —  and  they  fled  more  rapidly 
from  being  the  dupe  of  many  artful  persons,  male  and  female, 
who  practised  upon  his  benevolence  —  he  returned  to  his  literary 
labors,  and  shut  himself  up  from  society  to  provide  fresh  matter 
for  his  bookseller,  and  fresh  supplies  for  himself." 

How  completely  had  the  young  student  discerned  the  char- 
acteristics of  poor,  genial,  generous,  drudging,  holiday-loving 
Goldsmith ;  toiling  that  he  might  play :  earning  his  bread  by 
the  sweat  of  his  brains,  and  then  throwing  it  out  of  the  window. 

The  Roman  History  was  published  in  the  middle  of  May,  in 
two  volumes  of  five  hundred  pages  each.  It  was  brought  out 
without  parade  or  pretension,  and  was  announced  as  for  the 
use  of  schools  and  colleges ;  but,  though  a  work  written  for 
bread,  not  fame,  such  is  its  ease,  perspicuity,  good  sense,  and 
the  delightful  simplicity  of  its  style,  that  it  was  well  received 
by  the  critics,  commanded  a  prompt  and  extensive  sale,  and 
has  ever  since  remained  in  the  hands  of  young  and  old. 

Johnson,  who,  as  we  have  before  remarked,  rarely  praised  or 
dispraised  things  by  halves,  broke  forth  in  a  warm  eulogy  of 
the  author  and  the  work,  in  a  conversation  with  Boswell,  to  the 
great  astonishment  of  the  latter.  "  Whether  we  take  Gold- 
smith," said  he,  "  as  a  poet,  as  a  comic  writer,  or  as  an  his- 
torian, he  stands  in  the  first  class."  Bosweil. —  "  An  historian  I 


152  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

My  dear  sir,  you  surely  will  not  rank  his  compilation  of  the 
Roman  History  with  the  works  of  other  historians  of  this 
age."  Johnson.  —  "  Why,  who  are  before  him ?  "  Boswell.  — 
"Hume  —  Robertson  —  Lord  Lyttelton."  Johnson  (his  antip- 
athy against  the  Scotch  beginning  to  rise).  —  "I  have  not  read 
Hume ;  but  doubtless  Goldsmith's  History  is  better  than  the 
verbiage  of  Robertson,  or  the  foppery  of  Dalrymple."  Boswell. 
—  "  Will  you  not  admit  the  superiority  of  Robertson,  in  whose 
history  we  find  such  penetration,  such  painting?  "  Johnson.  — 
"  Sir,  you  must  consider  how  that  penetration  and  that  paint- 
ing are  employed.  It  is  not  history,  it  is  imagination.  He  who 
describes  what  he  never  saw,  draws  from  fancy.  Robertson 
paints  minds  as  Sir  Joshua  paints  faces,  in  a  history-piece ;  he 
imagines  an  heroic  countenance.  You  must  look  upon  Robert- 
son's work  as  romance,  and  try  it  by  that  standard.  History  it 
is  not.  Besides,  sir,  it  is  the  great  excellence  of  a  writer  to  put 
into  his  book  as  much  as  his  book  will  hold.  Goldsmith  has 
done  this  in  his  history.  Now  Robertson  might  have  put  twice 
as  much  in  his  book.  Robertson  is  like  a  man  who  has  packed 
gold  in  wool ;  the  wool  takes  up  more  room  than  the  gold.  No, 
sir,  I  always  thought  Robertson  would  be  crushed  with  his  own 
weight  —  would  be  buried  under  his  own  ornaments.  Goldsmith 
tells  you  shortly  all  you  want  to  know ;  Robertson  detains  you 
a  great  deal  too  long.  No  man  will  read  Robertson's  cumbrous 
detail  a  second  time  ;  but  Goldsmith's  plain  narrative  will  please 
again  and  again.  I  would  say  to  Robertson  what  an  old  tutor 
of  a  college  said  to  one  of  his  pupils,  '  Read  over  your  com- 
positions, and  whenever  you  meet  with  a  passage  which  you 
think  is  particularly  fine,  strike  it  out ! '  Goldsmith's  abridg- 
ment is  better  than  that  of  Lucius  Florus  or  Eutropius ;  and  I 
will  venture  to  say,  that  if  you  compare  him  with  Vertot  in  the 
same  places  of  the  Roman  History,  you  will  find  that  he  excels 
Vertot.  Sir,  he  has  the  art  of  compiling,  and  of  saying  every 
thing  he  has  to  say  in  a  pleasing  manner.  He  is  now  writing  a 
Natural  History,  and  will  make  it  as  entertaining  as  a  Persian 
tale." 

The  Natural  History  to  which  Johnson  alluded  was  the  '»  His- 
tory of  Animated  Nature,"  which  Goldsmith  commenced  in 
1769,  under  an  engagement  with  Griffin,  the  bookseller,  to  com- 
plete it  as  soon  as  possible  in  eight  volumes,  each  containing 
upward  of  four  hundred  pages,  in  pica ;  a  hundred  guineas  to 
be  paid  to  the  author  on  the  delivery  of  each  volume  in  manu- 
script. 

He  was  induced  to  engage  in  this  work  by  the  urgent  solici- 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  153 

tations  of  the  booksellers,  who  had  been  struck  by  the  sterling 
merits  and  captivating  style  of  an  introduction  which  he  wrote 
to  Brookes's  Natural  History.  It  was  Goldsmith's  intention 
originally  to  make  a  translation  of  Pliny,  with  a  popular  com- 
mentary ;  but  the  appearance  of  Buffon's  work  induced  him  to 
change  his  plan,  and  make  use  of  that  author  for  a  guide  and 
model. 

Cumberland,  speaking  of  this  work,  observes :  "  Distress 
drove  Goldsmith  upon  undertakings  neither  congenial  with  his 
studies  nor  worthy  of  his  talents.  I  remember  him  when,  in 
his  chambers  in  the  Temple,  he  showed  me  the  beginning  of  his 
'  Animated  Nature ; '  it  was  with  a  sigh,  such  as  genius  draws 
when  hard  necessity  diverts  it  from  its  bent  to  drudge  for 
bread,  and  talk  of  birds,  and  beasts,  and  creeping  things,  which 
Pidock's  showman  would  have  done  as  well.  Poor  fellow,  he 
hardly  knows  an  ass  from  a  mule,  nor  a  turkey  from  a  goose, 
but  when  he  sees  it  on  the  table." 

Others  of  Goldsmith's  friends  entertained  similar  ideas  with 
respect  to  his  fitness  for  the  task,  and  they  were  apt  now  and 
then  to  banter  him  on  the  subject,  and  to  amuse  themselves 
with  his  easy  credulity.  The  custom  among  the  natives  of 
Otaheite  of  eating  dogs  being  once  mentioned  in  company, 
Goldsmith  observed  that  a  similar  custom  prevailed  in  China ; 
that  a  dog-butcher  is  as  common  there  as  any  other  butcher ; 
and  that  when  he  walks  abroad  all  the  dogs  fall  on  him.  John- 
son. —  "  That  is  not  owing  to  his  killing  dogs  ;  sir,  I  remember 
a  butcher  at  Lichfield,  whom  a  dog  that  was  in  the  house  where 
I  lived  always  attacked.  It  is  the  smell  of  carnage  which  pro- 
vokes this,  let  the  animals  he  has  killed  be  what  they  may." 
Goldsmith. — "Yes,  there  is  a  general  abhorrence  in  animals 
at  the  signs  of  massacre.  If  you  put  a  tub  full  of  blood  into 
a  stable,  the  horses  are  likely  to  go  mad."  Johnson.  —  "I 
doubt  that."  Goldsmith.  —  "  Nay,  sir,  it  is  a  fact  well  authen- 
ticated." Thrale.  —  "  You  had  better  prove  it  before  you  put 
it  into  your  book  on  Natural  History.  You  may  do  it  in  my 
stable  if  you  will."  Johnson.  —  "Nay,  sir,  I  would  not  have 
him  prove  it.  If  he  is  content  to  take  his  information  from 
others,  he  may  get  through  his  book  with  little  trouble,  and 
without  much  endangering  his  reputation.  But  if  he  makes 
experiments  for  so  comprehensive  a  book  as  his,  there  would  be 
no  end  to  them  ;  his  erroneous  assertions  would  fall  then  upon 
himself ;  and  he  might  be  blamed  for  not  having  made  experi- 
ments as  to  every  particular." 

Johnson's  original  prediction,  however,  with  respect  to  this 


154  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

work,  chat  Goldsmith  would  make  it  as  entertaining  as  a  Per* 
sian  tale,  was  verified  ;  and  though  much  of  it  was  borrowed 
from  Buff  on,  and  but  little  of  it  written  from  his  own  observa- 
tion ;  though  it  was  by  no  means  profound,  and  was  chargeable 
with  many  errors,  yet  the  charms  of  his  style  and  the  play  of 
his  happy  disposition  throughout  have  continued  to  render  it  far 
more  popular  and  readable  than  many  works  on  the  subject  of 
much  greater  scope  and  science.  Cumberland  was  mistaken, 
however,  in  his  notion  of  Goldsmith's  ignorance  and  lack  of 
observation  as  to  the  characteristics  of  animals.  On  the  con» 
trary,  he  was  a  minute  and  shrewd  observer  of  them  ;  but  he 
observed  them  with  the  eye  of  a  poet  and  moralist  as  well  as  a 
naturalist.  We  quote  two  passages  from  his  works  illustrative 
of  this  fact,  and  we  do  so  the  more  readily  because  they  are  in 
a  manner  a  part  of  his  history,  and  give  us  another  peep  into 
his  private  life  in  the  Temple ;  of  his  mode  of  occupying  him- 
self  in  his  lonely  and  apparently  idle  moments,  and  of  another 
class  of  acquaintances  which  he  made  there. 

Speaking  in  his  "Animated  Nature "  of  the  habitudes  of 
Rooks,  "  I  have  often  amused  myself,"  says  he,  "  with  observ- 
ing their  plans  of  policy  from  my  window  in  the  Temple,  that 
looks  upon  a  grove,  where  they  have  made  a  colony  in  the  midst 
of  a  city.  At  the  commencement  of  spring  the  rookery,  which, 
during  the  continuance  of  winter,  seemed  to  have  been  deserted, 
or  only  guarded  by  about  five  or  six,  like  old  soldiers  in  a  gar- 
rison, now  begins  to  be  once  more  frequented ;  and  in  a  short 
time,  all  the  bustle  and  hurry  of  business  will  be  fairly  com- 
menced." 

The  other  passage,  which  we  take  the  liberty  to  quote  at  some 
tsngth,  is  from  an  admirable  paper  in  the  Bee,  and  relates  to 
the  House  Spider. 

"  Of  all  the  solitary  insects  I  have  ever  remarked,  the  spider 
is  the  most  sagacious,  and  its  motions  to  me,  who  have  atten- 
tively considered  them,  seem  almost  to  exceed  belief.  ...  I 
perceived,  about  four  years  ago,  a  large  spider  in  one  corner  of 
my  room  making  its  web ;  and  though  the  maid  frequently 
levelled  her  broom  against  the  labors  of  the  little  animal,  I 
had  the  good  fortune  then  to  prevent  its  destruction,  and  I  may 
say  it  more  than  paid  me  by  the  entertainment  it  afforded. 

"  In  three  days  the  web  was,  with  incredible  diligence,  com- 
pleted ;  nor  could  I  avoid  thinking  that  the  insect  seemed  to 
exult  in  its  new  abode.  It  frequently  traversed  it  round, 
examined  the  strength  of  every  part  of  it,  retired  into  its  hole, 
and  came  out  very  frequently.  The  first  enemy,  however,  it 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  155 

had  to  encounter  was  another  and  a  much  larger  spider,  which, 
having  no  web  of  its  own,  and  having  probably  exhausted  all 
its  stock  in  former  labors  of  this  kind,  came  to  invade  the  prop- 
erty of  its  neighbor.  Soon,  then,  a  terrible  encounter  ensued,  in 
which  the  invader  seemed  to  have  the  victory,  and  the  laborious 
spider  was  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  its  hole.  Upon  this  I 
perceived  the  victor  using  every  art  to  draw  the  enemy  from  its 
stronghold.  He  seemed  to  go  off,  but  quickly  returned ;  and 
when  he  found  all  arts  in  vain,  began  to  demolish  the  new  web 
without  mercy.  This  brought  on  another  battle,  and,  contrary 
to  my  expectations,  the  laborious  spider  became  conqueror,  and 
fairly  killed  its  antagonist. 

"  Now,  then,  in  peaceable  possession  of  what  was  justly  its 
own,  it  waited  three  days  with  the  utmost  patience,  repairing 
the  breaches  of  its  web,  and  taking  no  sustenance  that  I  could 
perceive.  At  last,  however,  a  large  blue  fly  fell  into  the  snare, 
and  struggled  hard  to  get  loose.  The  spider  gave  it  leave  to 
entangle  itself  as  much  as  possible,  but  it  seemed  to  be  too 
strong  for  the  cobweb.  I  must  own  I  was  greatly  surprised 
when  I  saw  the  spider  immediately  sally  out,  and  in  less  than 
a  minute  weave  a  new  net  round  its  captive,  by  which  the 
motion  of  its  wings  was  stopped ;  and  when  it  was  fairly 
hampered  in  this  manner  it  was  seized  and  dragged  into  the 
hole. 

"  In  this  manner  it  lived,  in  a  precarious  state ;  and  nature 
seemed  to  have  fitted  it  for  such  a  life,  for  upon  a  single  fly  it 
subsisted  for  more  than  a  week.  I  once  put  a  wasp  into  the 
net ;  but  when  the  spider  came  out  in  order  to  seize  it,  as 
usual,  upon  perceiving  what  kind  of  an  enemy  it  had  to  deal 
with,  it  instantly  broke  all  the  bands  that  held  it  fast,  and 
contributed  all  that  lay  in  its  power  to  disengage  so  formidable 
an  antagonist.  When  the  wasp  was  set  at  liberty,  1  expected 
the  spider  would  have  set  about  repairing  the  breaches  that 
were  made  in  its  net ;  but  those,  it  seems,  were  irreparable : 
wherefore  the  cobweb  was  now  entirely  forsaken,  and  a  new 
one  begun,  which  was  completed  in  the  usual  time. 

"  I  had  now  a  mind  to  try  how  many  cobwebs  a  single  spider 
could  furnish  ;  wherefore  I  destroyed  this,  and  the  insect  set 
about  another.  When  I  destroyed  the  other  also,  its  whole 
stock  seemed  entirely  exhausted,  and  it  could  spin  no  more. 
The  arts  it  made  use  of  to  support  itself,  now  deprived  of  its 
great  means  oi?  subsistence,  were  indeed  surprising.  I  have 
seen  it  roll  up  its  legs  like  a  I  all,  and  lie  motionless  for  hours 
together,  but  cautiously  watching  all  the  time  :  when  a  fly  hap- 


156  OLIVER  GOLDSMITB. 

pened  to  approach  sufficiently  near,  it  would  dart  out  all  at  once, 
and  often  seize  its  prey. 

"  Of  this  life,  however,  it  soon  began  to  grow  weary,  and 
resolved  to  invade  the  possession  of  some  other  spider,  since  it 
could  not  make  a  web  of  its  own.  It  formed  an  attack  upon  a 
neighboring  fortification  with  great  vigor,  and  at  first  was  as 
vigorously  repulsed.  Not  daunted,  however,  with  one  defeat, 
in  this  manner  it  continued  to  lay  siege  to  another's  web  for 
three  days,  and  at  length,  having  killed  the  defendant,  actually 
took  possession.  When  smaller  flies  happen  to  fall  into  the 
snare,  the  spider  does  not  sally  out  at  once,  but  very  patiently 
waits  till  it  is  sure  of  them  ;  for,  upon  his  immediately  ap- 
proaching, the  terror  of  his  appearance  might  give  the  captive 
strength  sufficient  to  get  loose ;  the  manner,  then,  is  to  wait 
patiently,  till,  by  ineffectual  and  impotent  struggles,  the  cap- 
tive has  wasted  all  its  strength,  and  then  he  becomes  a  certain 
and  easy  conquest. 

"  The  insect  I  am  now  describing  lived  three  years ;  every 
year  it  changed  its  skin  and  got  a  new  set  of  legs.  I  have 
sometimes  plucked  off  a  leg,  which  grew  again  in  two  or  three 
days.  At  first  it  dreaded  my  approach  to  its  web,  but  at  last 
it  became  so  familiar  as  to  take  a  fly  out  of  my  hand ;  and, 
upon  my  touching  any  part  of  the  web,  would  immediately 
leave  its  hole,  prepared  either  for  a  defence  or  an  attack." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

HONORS     AT    THE     ROYAL     ACADEMY LETTER     TO     HIS     BROTHER 

MAURICE  —  FAMILY  FORTUNES  —  JANE  CONTARINE  AND  THE 
MINIATURE  —  PORTRAITS  AND  ENGRAVINGS SCHOOL  ASSOCIA- 
TIONS   JOHNSON  AND  GOLDSMITH  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  . 

THE  latter  part  of  the  year  1 768  had  been  made  memorable 
in  the  world  of  taste  by  the  institution  of  the  Royal  Academy 
of  Arts,  under  the  patronage  of  the  King,  and  the  direction  of 
forty  of  the  most  distinguished  artists.  Reynolds,  who  had 
been  mainly  instrumental  in  founding  it,  had  been  unanimously 
elected  president,  and  had  thereupon  received  the  honor  of 
knighthood.1  Johnson  was  so  delighted  with  his  friend's 

1  We  must  apologize  for  the  anachronism  we  have  permitted  ourselves  in  the  course 
of  this  memoir,  in  speaking  of  Reynolds  as  Sir  Joshua,  when  treating  of  circumstances 
which  occurred  prior  to  his  being  dubbed;  but  it  is  so  customary  to  speak  of  him  by 
that  title,  that  we  found  it  difficult  to  dispense  with  it. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  157 

elevation,  that  he  broke  through  a  rule  of  total  abstinence  with 
respect  to  wine,  which  he  had  maintained  for  several  years,  and 
drank  bumpers  on  the  occasion.  Sir  Joshua  eagerly  sought  to 
associate  his  old  and  valued  friends  with  him  in  his  new  honors, 
and  it  is  supposed  to  be  through  his  suggestions  that,  on  the  first 
establishment  of  professorships,  which  took  place  in  December, 
1769,  Johnson  was  nominated  to  that  of  Ancient  Literature, 
and  Goldsmith  to  that  of  History.  They  were  mere  honorary 
titles,  without  emolument,  but  gave  distinction,  from  the  noble 
institution  to  which  they  appertained.  They  also  gave  the  pos- 
sessors honorable  places  at  the  annual  banquet,  at  which  were 
assembled  many  of  the  most  distinguished  persons  of  rank  and 
talent,  all  proud  to  be  classed  among  the  patrons  of  the  arts. 

The  following  letter  of  Goldsmith  to  his  brother  alludes  to 
the  foregoing  appointment,  and  to  a  small  legacy  bequeathed 
to  him  by  his  uncle  Contarine. 


"  To  Mr.  Maurice  Goldsmith,  at  James  Lawder's,  Esq.,  at  Kil- 
more,  near  Carrick-on- Shannon. 

"  January,  1770. 

"  DEAR  BROTHER  :  I  should  have  answered  your  letter  sooner, 
but,  in  truth,  I  am  not  fond  of  thinking  of  the  necessities  of 
those  I  love,  when  it  is  so  very  little  in  my  power  to  help  them. 
I  am  sorry  to  find  you  are  every  way  unprovided  for;  and 
what  adds  to  my  uneasiness  is,  that  I  have  received  a  letter 
from  my  sister  Johnson,  by  which  I  learn  that  she  is  pretty  much 
in  the  same  circumstances.  As  to  myself,  I  believe  I  think 
I  could  get  both  you  and  my  poor  brother-in-law  something  like 
that  which  you  desire,  but  I  am  determined  never  to  ask  for 
little  things,  nor  exhaust  any  little  interest  I  may  have,  until  I 
can  serve  you,  him,  and  myself  more  effectually.  As  yet,  no 
opportunity  has  offered ;  but  I  believe  you  are  pretty  well  con- 
vinced that  I  will  not  be  remiss  when  it  arrives. 

"  The  King  has  lately  been  pleased  to  make  me  Professor  of 
Ancient  History  in  the  Royal  Academ}-  of  Painting  which  he 
has  just  established,  but  there  is  no  salary  annexed  ;  and  I  took 
it  rather  as  a  compliment  to  the  institution  than  any  benefit  to 
myself.  Honors  to  one  in  my  situation  are  something  like 
ruffles  to  one  that  wants  a  shirt. 

"You  tell  me  that  there  are  fourteen  or  fifteen  pounds  left 
me  in  the  hands  of  my  cousin  Lawder,  and  you  ask  me  what 
I  would  have  done  with  them.  My  dear  brother,  I  would  by 
no  means  give  any  directions  to  my  dear  worthy  relations  at 


158  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

Kilmore  how  to  dispose  of  money  which  is,  properly  speaking^ 
more  theirs  than  mine.  All  that  I  can  say  is,  that  I  entirely, 
and  this  letter  will  serve  to  witness,  give  up  any  right  and  titie 
to  it ;  and  I  am  sure  they  will  dispose  of  it  to  the  best  advan- 
tage. To  them  I  entirely  leave  it ;  whether  they  or  you  may 
think  the  whole  necessary  to  fit  you  out,  or  whether  our  poor 
sister  Johnson  may  not  want  the  half,  I  leave  entirely  to  their 
and  your  discretion.  The  kindness  of  that  good  couple  to  our 
shattered  family  demands  our  sincerest  gratitude  ;  and,  though 
they  have  almost  forgotten  me,  yet,  if  good  things  at  last  ar- 
rive, I  hope  one  day  to  return  and  increase  their  good-humor 
by  adding  to  my  own. 

"I  have  sent  my  cousin  Jenny  a  miniature  picture  of  my- 
self, as  I  believe  it  is  the  most  acceptable  present  I  can  offer. 
I  have  ordered  it  to  be  left  for  her  at  George  Faulkner's,  folded 
in  a  letter.  The  face,  you  well  know,  is  ugly  enough,  but  it  is 
finely  painted.  I  will  shortly  also  send  my  friends  over  the 
Shannon  some  mezzotinto  prints  of  myself,  and  some  more  of 
my  friends  here,  such  as  Burke,  Johnson,  Reynolds,  and  Col- 
man.  I  believe  I  have  written  a  hundred  letters  to  different 
friends  in  your  country,  and  never  received  an  answer  to  any 
of  them.  I  do  not  know  how  to  account  for  this,  or  why  they 
are  unwilling  to  keep  up  for  me  those  regards  which  I  must 
ever  retain  for  them. 

"  If,  then,  you  have  a  mind  to  oblige  me,  you  will  write 
often,  whether  I  answer  you  or  not.  Let  me  particularly  have 
the  news  of  our  family  and  old  acquaintances.  For  instance, 
you  may  begin  by  telling  me  about  the  family  where  you  re-- 
side, how  they  spend  their  time,  and  whether  they  ever  make 
mention  of  me.  Tell  me  about  my  mother,  my  brother  Hod- 
son  and  his  son,  my  brother  Harry's  son  and  daughter,  my 
sister  Johnson,  the  family  of  Ballyoughter,  what  is  become  of 
them,  where  they  live,  and  how  they  do.  You  talked  of  being 
my  only  brother :  I  don't  understand  you.  Where  is  Charles? 
A  sheet  of  paper  occasionally  filled  with  the  news  of  this  kind 
would  make  me  very  happy,  and  would  keep  you  nearer  my 
mind.  As  it  is,  my  dear  brother,  believe  me  to  be 
"  Yours,  most  affectionately, 

"OLIVER  GOLDSMITH." 

By  this  letter  we  find  the  Goldsmiths  the  same  shifting,  shift- 
less race  as  formerly ;  a  "  shattered  family,"  scrambling  on  each 
other's  back  as  soon  as  any  rise  above  the  surface.  Maurice 
is  "every  way  unprovided  for;  "  living  upon  cousin  Jane  and 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  159 

her  husband ;  and,  perhaps,  amusing  himself  by  hunting  otter 
in  the  river  Inny.  Sister  Johnson  and  her  husband  are  as 
poorly  off  as  Maurice,  with,  perhaps,  no  one  at  hand  to  quar- 
ter themselves  upon  ;  as  to  the  rest,  "  what  is  become  of  them  ; 
where  do  they  live ;  how  do  they  do ;  what  is  become  of 
Charles?"  What  forlorn,  haphazard  life  is  implied  by  these 
questions !  Can  we  wonder  that,  with  all  the  love  for  his 
native  place,  which  is  shown  throughout  Goldsmith's  writ- 
ings, he  had  not  the  heart  to  return  there?  Yet  his  affections 
are  still  there.  He  wishes  to  know  whether  the  Lawders 
(which  means  his  cousin  Jane,  his  early  Valentine)  ever  make 
mention  of  him  ;  he  sends  Jane  his  miniature  ;  he  believes  "  it 
is  the  most  acceptable  present  he  can  offer;"  he  evidently, 
therefore,  does  not  believe  she  has  almost  forgotten  him, 
although  he  intimates  that  he  does :  in  his  memory  she  is 
still  Jane  Contarine,  as  he  last  saw  her,  when  he  accompanied 
her  harpsichord  with  his  flute.  Absence,  like  death,  sets  a  seal 
on  the  image  of  those  we  have  loved ;  we  cannot  realize  the 
intervening  changes  which  time  may  have  effected. 

As  to  the  rest  of  Goldsmith's  relatives,  he  abandons  his 
legacy  of  fifteen  pounds,  to  be  shared  among  them.  It  is  all  he 
has  to  give.  His  heedless  improvidence  is  eating  up  the  pay 
of  the  booksellers  in  advance.  With  all  his  literary  success, 
he  has  neither  money  nor  influence ;  but  he  has  empty  fame, 
and  he  is  ready  to  participate  with  them ;  he  is  honorary  pro- 
fessor, without  pay ;  his  portrait  is  to  be  engraved  in  mezzo- 
tint, in  company  with  those  of  his  friends,  Burke,  Reynolds. 
Johnson,  Colman,  and  others,  and  he  will  send  prints  of  them 
to  his  friends  over  the  Channel,  though  they  may  not  have  a 
house  to  hang  them  up  in.  What  a  motley  letter !  How  indic- 
ative of  the  motley  character  of  the  writer !  By  the  by,  the 
publication  of  a  splendid  mezzotinto  engraving  of  his  likeness 
by  Reynolds,  was  a  great  matter  of  glorification  to  Gold- 
smith, especially  as  it  appeared  in  such  illustrious  company. 
As  he  was  one  day  walking  the  streets  in  a  state  of  high  ela- 
tion, from  having  just  seen  it  figuring  in  the  print-shop  win- 
dows, he  met  a  young  gentleman  with  a  newly  married  wife 
hanging  on  his  arm,  whom  he  immediately  recognized  for 
Master  Bishop,  one  of  the  boys  he  had  petted  and  treated  with 
sweetmeats  when  a  humble  usher  at  Milner's  school.  The 
kindly  feelings  of  old  times  revived,  and  he  accosted  him  with 
cordial  familiarity,  though  the  youth  may  have  found  some 
difficulty  in  recognizing  in  the  personage,  arrayed,  perhaps,  in 
garments  of  Tyrian  dye,  the  dingy  pedagogue  of  the  Milners. 


160  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

"  Come,  my  boy,"  cried  Goldsmith,  as  if  still  speaking  to  a 
schoolboy,  "Come,  Sam,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you.  I  must 
treat  you  to  something — what  shall  it  be?  Will  you  have  some 
apples?"  glancing  at  an  old  woman's  stall;  then,  recollecting 
the  print-shop  window:  "  Sam,"  said  he,  "  have  you  seen  my 
picture  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds?  Have  you  seen  it,  Sam? 
Have  you  got  an  engraving  ?  ' '  Bishop  was  caught ;  he  equivo- 
cated ;  he  had  not  yet  bought  it ;  but  he  was  furnishing  his 
house,  and  had  fixed  upon  the  place  where  it  was  to  be  hung. 
"  Ah,  Sam  !  "  rejoined  Goldsmith  reproachfully,  "  if  your  pic- 
ture had  been  published,  I  should  not  have  waited  an  hour 
without  having  it." 

After  all,  it  was  honest  pride,  not  vanity,  in  Goldsmith,  that 
was  gratified  at  seeing  his  portrait  deemed  worthy  of  being 
perpetuated  by  the  classic  pencil  of  Reynolds,  and  "hung  up 
in  history"  beside  that  of  his  revered  friend,  Johnson.  Even 
the  great  moralist  himself  was  not  insensible  to  a  feeling  of 
this  kind.  Walking  one  day  with  Goldsmith,  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  among  the  tombs  of  monarchs,  warriors,  and  states- 
men, they  came  to  the  sculptured  mementos  of  literary  wor- 
thies in  poets'  corner.  Casting  his  eye  round  upon  these  me- 
morials of  genius,  Johnson  muttered  in  a  low  tone  to  his 
companion, 

Forsitan  et  nostrum  nomen  miscebiiur  istis. 

Goldsmith  treasured  up  the  intimated  hope,  and  shortly  after- 
ward, as  they  were  passing  by  Temple  bar,  where  the  heads  of 
Jacobite  rebels,  executed  for  treason,  were  mouldering  aloft  on 
spikes,  pointed  up  to  the  grizzly  mementos,  and  echoed  the  in- 
timation, 

Forsitan  et  nostrum  nomen  miscebitur  istis. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

PUBLICATION   OF    "  THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE*' NOTICES   AND 

ILLUSTRATIONS    OF   IT. 

SEVERAL  years  had  now  elapsed  since  the  publication  of 
"  The  Traveller,  and  much  wonder  was  expressed  that  the 
great  success  of  that  poem  had  not  excited  the  author  to 
further  poetic  attempts.  On  being  questioned  at  the  annual 
dinner  of  the  Royal  Academy  by  the  earl  of  Lisburn,  why  he 
neglected  the  muses  to  compile  histories  and  write  novels, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  161 

"  My  Lord,"  replied  he,  "  by  courting  the  muses  I  shall  starve, 
but  by  my  other  labors  I  eat,  drink,  have  good  clothes,  and 
can  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  life."  So,  also,  on  being  asked  by  a 
poor  writer  what  was  the  most  profitable  mode  of  exercising 
the  pen,  "My  dear  fellow,"  replied  he,  good-humoredly,  "pay 
no  regard  to  the  draggle-tailed  muses ;  for  my  part  I  have 
found  productions  in  prose  much  more  sought  after  and  better 
paid  for." 

Still,  however,  as  we  have  heretofore  shown,  he  found  sweet 
moments  of  dalliance  to  steal  away  from  his  prosaic  toils,  and 
court  the  muse  among  the  green  lanes  and  hedgerows  in  the 
rural  environs  of  London,  and  on  the  26th  of  May,  1770,  he 
was  enabled  to  bring  his  "  Deserted  Village  "  before  the  public. 

The  popularity  of  "The  Traveller"  had  prepared  the  way 
for  this  poem,  and  its  sale  was  instantaneous  and  immense. 
The  first  edition  was  immediately  exhausted ;  in  a  few  days  a 
second  was  issued  ;  in  a  few  days  more  a  third,  and  by  the 
16th  of  August  the  fifth  edition  was  hurried  through  the  press. 
As  is  the  case  with  popular  writers,  he  had  become  his  own 
rival,  and  critics  were  inclined  to  give  the  preference  to  his 
first  poem  ;  but  with  the  public  at  large  we  believe  "The  De- 
serted Village  "  has  ever  been  the  greatest  favorite.  Previous 
to  its  publication  the  bookseller  gave  him  in  advance  a  note 
for  the  price  agreed  upon,  one  hundred  guineas.  As  the  latter 
was  returning  home  he  met  a  friend  to  whom  he  mentioned 
the  circumstance,  and  who,  apparently  judging  of  poetry  by 
quantity  rather  than  quality,  observed  that  it  was  a  great  sum 
for  so  small  a  poem.  "  In  truth,"  said  Goldsmith,  "  I  think  so 
too ;  it  is  much  more  than  the  honest  man  can  afford  or  the 
piece  is  worth.  I  have  not  been  easy  since  I  received  it."  In 
fact,  he  actually  returned  the  note  to  the  bookseller,  and  left 
it  to  him  to  graduate  the  payment  according  to  the  success  of 
the  work.  The  bookseller,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  soon  re- 
paid him  in  full  with  many  acknowledgments  of  his  disinter- 
estedness. This  anecdote  has  been  called  in  question,  we 
know  not  on  what  grounds  ;  we  see  nothing  in  it  incompatible 
with  the  character  of  Goldsmith,  who  was  very  impulsive,  and 
prone  to  acts  of  inconsiderate  generosity. 

As  we  do  not  pretend  in  this  summary  memoir  to  go  into  a 
criticism  or  analysis  of  any  of  Goldsmith's  writings,  we  shall 
not  dwell  upon  the  peculiar  merits  of  this  poem  ;  we  cannot 
help  noticing,  however,  how  truly  it  is  a  mirror  of  the  author's 
heart,  and  of  all  the  fond  pictures  of  early  friends  and  early  life 
forever  present  there.  It  seems  to  us  as  if  the  very  last  ac- 


162  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

counts  received  from  home,  of  his  "  shattered  family,"  and  the 
desolation  that  seemed  to  have  settled  upon  the  haunts  of  his 
childhood,  had  cut  to  the  roots  one  feebly  cherished  hope,  and 
produced  the  following  exquisitely  tender  and  mournful  lines : 

"  In  all  my  wand'rings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  giv'n  my  share  — 
I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amid  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose; 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amid  the  swains  to  show  my  book-Iearu'd  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  ev'ning  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt  and  all  I  saw ; 
And  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horn  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return  —  and  die  at  home  at  last." 

How  touchingly  expressive  are  the  succeeding  lines,  wrung 
from  a  heart  which  all  the  trials  and  temptations  and  buffet- 
ings  of  the  world  could  not  render  worldly ;  which,  amid  a 
thousand  follies  and  errors  of  the  head,  still  retained  its  child- 
like innocence ;  and  which,  doomed  to  struggle  on  to  the  last 
amid  the  din  and  turmoil  of  the  metropolis,  had  ever  been 
cheating  itself  with  a  dream  of  rural  quiet  and  seclusion : 

"Oh  bless'd  retirement!  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine, 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
Nor  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay,  i 

While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 
And  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past." 

NOTE. 

The  following  article,  which  appeared  in  a  London  periodi- 
cal, shows  the  effect  of  Goldsmith's  poem  in  renovating  the 
fortunes  of  Lissoy. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  163 

"About  three  miles  from  Ballymahon,  a  very  central  town 
in  the  sister  kingdom,  is  the  mansion  and  village  of  Auburn, 
so  called  by  their  present  possessor,  Captain  Hogan.  Through 
the  taste  and  improvement  of  this  gentleman,  it  is  now  a  beau- 
tiful spot,  although  fifteen  years  since  it  presented  a  very  bare 
and  uupoetical  aspect.  This,  however,  was  owing  to  a  cause 
which  serves  strongly  to  corroborate  the  assertion  that  Gold- 
smith had  this  scene  in  view  when  he  wrote  his  poem  of  '  The 
Deserted  Village.'  The  then  possessor,  General  Napier,  turned 
all  his  tenants  out  of  their  farms  that  he  might  enclose  them  in 
his  own  private  domain.  Littleton,  the  mansion  of  the  gen- 
eral, stands  not  far  off,  a  complete  emblem  of  the  desolating 
spirit  lamented  by  the  poet,  dilapidated  and  converted  into  a 
barrack. 

"  The  chief  object  of  attraction  is  Lissoy,  once  the  parsonage- 
house  of  Henry  Goldsmith,  that  brother  to  whom  the  poet 
dedicated  his  '  Traveller,'  and  who  is  represented  as  the  village 
pastor, 

4  Passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year.' 

"  When  I  was  in  the  country,  the  lower  chambers  were  in- 
habited by  pigs  and  sheep,  and  the  drawing-rooms  by  goats. 
Captain  Hogan,  however,  has,  I  believe,  got  it  since  into  his 
possession,  and  has,  of  course,  improved  its  condition. 

"  Though  at  first  strongly  inclined  to  dispute  the  identity  of 
Auburn,  Lissoy  House  overcame  my  scruples.  As  I  clambered 
over  the  rotten  gate,  and  crossed  the  grass-grown  lawn  or 
court,  the  tide  of  association  became  too  strong  for  casuistry ; 
here  the  poet  dwelt  and  wrote,  and  here  his  thoughts  fondly 
recurred  when  composing  his  '  Traveller'  in  a  foreign  land. 
Yonder  was  the  decent  church,  that  literally  '  topped  the  neigh- 
boring hill.'  Before  me  lay  the  little  hill  of  Knockrue,  on  which 
he  declares,  in  one  of  his  letters,  he  had  rather  sit  with  a  book 
in  hand  than  mingle  in  the  proudest  assemblies.  And,  above 
all,  startlingly  true,  beneath  my  feet  was 

'  Yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild.' 

"  A  painting  from  the  life  could  not  be  more  exact.  '  The 
stubborn  currant-bush '  lifts  its  head  above  the  rank  grass,  and 
the  proud  hollyhock  flaunts  where  its  sisters  of  the  flower-knot 
are  no  more. 

"  In  the  middle  of  the  village  stands  the  old  '  hawthorn- tree,' 
built  up  with  masonry  to  distinguish  and  preserve  it ;  it  is  old 


164  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

and  stunted,  and  suffers  much  from  the  depredations  of  post- 
chaise  travellers,  who  generally  stop  to  procure  a  twig.  Oppo- 
site to  it  is  the  village  alehouse,  over  the  door  of  which  swings 
4  The  Three  Jolly  Pigeons.'  Within  every  thing  is  arranged 
according  to  the  letter : 

'  The  whitewash 'd  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door : 
The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose.' 

"  Captain  Hogan,  I  have  heard,  found  great  difficulty  in  ob- 
taining '  the  twelve  good  rules,'  but  at  length  purchased  them 
at  some  London  bookstall  to  adorn  the  whitewashed  parlor  of 
'The  Three  Jolly  Pigeons.'  However  laudable  this  may  be, 
nothing  shook  my  faith  in  the  reality  of  Auburn  so  much  as 
this  exactness,  which  had  the  disagreeable  air  of  being  got  up 
for  the  occasion.  The  last  object  of  pilgrimage  is  the  quondam 
habitation  of  the  schoolmaster, 

'There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rale.' 

It  is  surrounded  with  fragrant  proofs  of  identity  in 

•The  blossom'd  furze,  unprofitably  gay.' 

"  There  is  to  be  seen  the  chair  of  the  poet,  which  fell  into  the 
hands  of  its  present  possessors  at  the  wreck  of  the  parsonage- 
house  ;  they  have  frequently  refused  large  offers  of  purchase ; 
but  more,  I  dare  say,  for  the  sake  of  drawing  contributions 
from  the  curious  than  from  any  reverence  for  the  bard.  The 
chair  is  of  oak,  with  back  and  seat  of  cane,  which  precluded 
all  hopes  of  a  secret  drawer,  like  that  lately  discovered  in 
Gay's.  There  is  no  fear  of  its  being  worn  out  by  the  devout 
earnestness  of  sitters  —  as  the  cocks  and  hens  have  usurped 
undisputed  possession  of  it,  and  protest  most  clamorously  against 
all  attempts  to  get  it  cleansed  or  to  seat  one's  self. 

"  The  controversy  concerning  the  identity  of  this  Auburn 
was  formerly  a  standing  theme  of  discussion  among  the  learned 
of  the  neighborhood  ;  but,  since  the  pros  and  cons  have  been 
all  ascertained,  the  argument  has  died  away.  Its  abettors 
plead  the  singular  agreement  between  the  local  history  of  the 
place  and  the  Auburn  of  the  poem,  and  the  exactness  with 
which  the  scenery  of  the  one  answers  to  the  description  of  the 
other.  To  this  is  opposed  the  mention  of  the  nightingale, 

'  And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made; ' 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  165 

there  being  no  such  bird  in  the  island.  The  objection  is 
slighted,  on  the  other  hand,  by  considering  the  passage  as  a 
mere  poetical  license.  'Besides,'  say  they,  'the  robin  is  the 
Irish  nightingale.'  And  if  it  be  hinted  how  unlikely  it  was 
that  Goldsmith  should  have  laid  the  scene  in  a  place  from 
which  he  was  and  had  been  so  long  absent,  the  rejoinder  is 
always,  '  Pray,  sir,  was  Milton  in  hell  when  he  built  Pandemo- 
nium ? ' 

"The  line  is  naturally  drawn  between;  there  can  be  nc 
doubt  that  the  poet  intended  England  by 

1  The  land  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay.' 

But  it  is  very  natural  to  suppose  that,  at  the  same  time,  his 
imagination  had  in  view  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  which  give 
such  strong  features  of  resemblance  to  the  picture." 

Best,  an  Irish  clergyman,  told  Davis,  the  traveller  in  Amer- 
ica, that  the  hawthorn-bush  mentioned  in  the  poem  was  still 
remarkably  large.  "  I  was  riding  once,"  said  he,  "  with  Brady, 
titular  Bishop  of  Ardagh,  when  he  observed  to  me,  '  Ma  foy, 
Best,  this  huge  overgrown  bush  is  mightily  in  the  way.  I  will 
order  it  to  be  cut  down.'  —  '  What,  sir !  '  replied  I,  '  cut  down 
the  bush  that  supplies  so  beautiful  an  image  in  "  The  Deserted 
Village  "  ?  '  —  '  Ma  foy  !  '  exclaimed  the  bishop,  '  is  that  the 
hawthorn-bush?  Then  let  it  be  sacred  from  the  edge  of  the 
axe,  and  evil  be  to  him  that  should  cut  off  a  branch.'  "  — The 
hawthorn-bush,  however,  has  long  since  been  cut  up,  root  and 
branch,  in  furnishing  relics  to  literary  pilgrims. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  POET  AMONG  THE  LADIES DESCRIPTION  OF    HIS    PERSON   AND 

MANNERS EXPEDITION  TO    PARIS  WITH    THE    HORNECK    FAMILY 

THE  TRAVELLER  OF  TWENTY  AND    THE    TRAVELLER   OF    FORTY 

HICKEY,  THE  SPECIAL  ATTORNEY AN  UNLUCKY  EXPLOIT. 

"  THE  Deserted  Village  "  had  shed  an  additional  poetic  grace 
round  the  homely  person  of  the  author  ;  he  was  becoming  more 
and  more  acceptable  in  ladies'  eyes,  and  finding  himself  more 
and  more  at  ease  in  their  society  ;  at  least  in  the  societ}'  of 
those  whom  he  met  in  the  Reynolds  circle,  among  whom  h« 
particularly  affected  the  beautiful  family  of  the  Hornecks. 


166  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

But  let  us  see  what  were  really  the  looks  and  manners  of 
Goldsmith  about  this  time,  and  what  right  he  had  to  aspire  to 
ladies'  smiles ;  and  in  so  doing  let  us  not  take  the  sketches  of 
Boswell  and  his  compeers,  who  had  a  propensity  to  represent 
him  in  caricature ;  but  let  us  take  the  apparently  truthful  and 
discriminating  picture  of  him  as  he  appeared  to  Judge  Day, 
when  the  latter  was  a  student  in  the  Temple. 

"  In  person,"  says  the  judge,  "  he  was  short ;  about  five  feet 
five  or  six  inches  ;  strong,  but  not  heavy  in  make  ;  rather  fair 
in  complexion,  with  brown  hair ;  such,  at  least,  as  could  be  dis- 
tinguished from  his  wig.  His  features  were  plain,  but  not  re- 
pulsive —  certainly  not  so  when  lighted  up  by  conversation. 
His  manners  were  simple,  natural,  and  perhaps  on  the  whole, 
we  may  say,  not  polished ;  at  least  without  the  refinement  and 
good-breeding  which  the  exquisite  polish  of  his  compositions 
would  lead  us  to  expect.  He  was  always  cheerful  and  ani- 
mated, often,  indeed,  boisterous  in  his  mirth ;  entered  with 
spirit  into  convivial  society ;  contributed  largely  to  its  enjoy- 
ments by  solidity  of  information,  and  the  naive t<§  and  original- 
ity of  his  character;  talked  often  without  premeditation,  and 
laughed  loudly  without  restraint." 

This,  it  will  be  recollected,  represents  him  as  he  appeared  to 
a  young  Templar,  who  probably  saw  him  only  in  Temple  coffee- 
houses, at  students'  quarters,  or  at  the  jovial  supper  parties 
given  at  the  poet's  own  chambers ;  here,  of  course,  his  mind 
was  in  its  rough  dress ;  his  laugh  may  have  been  loud  and  his 
mirth  boisterous ;  but  we  trust  all  these  matters  became  soft- 
ened and  modified  when  he  found  himself  in  polite  drawing- 
rooms  and  in  female  society. 

But  what  say  the  ladies  themselves  of  him  ?  And  here,  fortu- 
nately, we  have  another  sketch  of  him,  as  he  appeared  at 
the  time  to  one  of  the  Horneck  circle  ;  in  fact,  we  believe,  to  the 
Jessamy  Bride  herself.  After  admitting,  apparently  with 
some  reluctance,  that  "  he  was  a  very  plain  man,"  she  goes  on 
to  say,  "  but  had  he  been  much  more  so,  it  was  impossible  not 
to  love  and  respect  his  goodness  of  heart,  which  broke  out  on 
every  occasion.  His  benevolence  was  unquestionable,  and  his 
countenance  bore  every  trace  of  it :  no  one  that  knew  him  inti- 
mately could  avoid  admiring  and  loving  his  good  qualities." 
When  to  all  this  we  add  the  idea  of  intellectual  delicacy  and 
refinement  associated  with  him  by  his  poetry  and  the  newly 
plucked  bays  that  were  flourishing  round  his  brow,  we  can- 
not be  surprised  that  fine  and  fashionable  ladies  should  be 
proud  of  his  attentions,  and  that  even  a  young  beauty  should 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  167 

not  be  altogether  displeased  with  the  thoughts  of  having  a  man 
of  his  genius  in  her  -chains. 

We  are  led  to  indulge  some  notions  of  the  kind  from  finding 
him  in  the  month  of  July,  but  a  few  weeks  after  the  publica- 
tion of  "  The  Deserted  Village,"  setting  off  on  a  six  weeks'  ex- 
cursion to  Paris,  in  company  with  Mrs.  Horneck  and  her  two 
beautiful  daughters.  A  day  or  two  before  his  departure,  we 
find  another  new  gala  suit  charged  to  him  on  the  books  of  Mr. 
William  Filby.  Were  the  bright  eyes  of  the  Jessamy  Bride 
responsible  for  this  additional  extravagance  of  wardrobe? 
Goldsmith  had  recently  been  editing  the  works  of  Parnell ; 
had  he  taken  courage  from  the  example  of  Edwin  in  the  fairy 
tale?  — 

"  Yet  spite  of  all  that  nature  did 
To  make  his  uncouth  form  forbid, 

This  creature  dared  to  love. 
He  felt  the  force  of  Edith's  eyes, 
Nor  wanted  hope  to  gain  the  prize 
Could  ladies  look  within " 

All  this  we  throw  out  as  mere  hints  and  surmises,  leaving  it 
to  our  readers  to  draw  their  own  conclusions.  It  will  be  found, 
however,  that  the  poet  was  subjected  to  shrewd  bantering 
among  his  contemporaries  about  the  beautiful  Mary  Horneck, 
and  that  he  was  extremely  sensitive  on  the  subject. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  June  that  he  set  out  for  Paris  with 
his  fair  companions,  and  the  following  letter  was  written  by 
him  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  soon  after  the  party  landed  at 
Calais : 

"Mr  DEAR  FRIEND:  We  had  a  very  quick  passage  from 
Dover  to  Calais,  which  we  performed  in  three  hours  and 
twenty  minutes,  all  of  us  extremely  sea-sick,  which  must 
necessarily  have  happened,  as  my  machine  to  prevent  sea- 
sickness was  not  completed.  We  were  glad  to  leave  Dover, 
because  we  hated  to  be  imposed  upon ;  so  were  in  high  spirits 
at  coming  to  Calais,  where  we  were  told  that  a  little  money 
would  go  a  great  way. 

"Upon  landing,  with  two  little  trunks,  which  was  all  we 
carried  with  us,  we  were  surprised  to  see  fourteen  or  fifteen 
fellows  all  running  down  to  the  ship  to  lay  their  hands  upon 
them ;  four  got  under  each  trunk,  the  rest  surrounded  and 
held  the  hasps ;  and  in  this  manner  our  little  baggage  was 
conducted,  with  a  kind  of  funeral  solemnity,  till  it  was  safely 


168  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

lodged  at  the  custom-house.  We  were  well  enough  pleased 
with  the  people's  civility  till  they  came  to  be  paid  ;  every  crea- 
ture that  had  the  happiness  of  but  touching  our  trunks  with 
their  finger  expected  sixpence ;  and  they  had  so  pretty  and 
civil  a  manner  of  demanding  it,  that  there  was  no  refusing 
them. 

"When  we  had  done  with  the  porters,  we  had  next  to  speak 
with  the  custom-house  officers,  who  had  their  pretty  civil  way 
too.  We  were  directed  to  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre,  where  a 
valet-de-place  came  to  offer  his  service,  and  spoke  to  me  ten 
minutes  before  I  once  found  out  that  he  was  speaking  English. 
We  had  no  occasion  for  his  services,  so  we  gave  him  a  little 
money  because  he  spoke  English,  and  because  he  wanted  it. 
I  cannot  help  mentioning  another  circumstance :  I  bought  a 
new  ribbon  for  my  wig  at  Canterbury,  and  the  barber  at 
Calais  broke  it  in  order  to  gain  sixpence  by  buying  me  a  new 
one." 

An  incident  which  occurred  in  the  course  of  this  tour  has 
been  tortured  by  that  literary  magpie,  Boswell,  into  a  proof 
of  Goldsmith's  absurd  jealousy  of  any  admiration  shown  to 
others  in  his  presence.  While  stopping  at  a  hotel  in  Lisle, 
they  were  drawn  to  the  windows  by  a  military  parade  in  front. 
The  extreme  beauty  of  the  Miss  Hornecks  immediately  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  officers,  who  broke  forth  with  en- 
thusiastic speeches  and  compliments  intended  for  their  ears. 
Goldsmith  was  amused  for  a  while,  but  at  length  affected  im- 
patience at  this  exclusive  admiration  of  his  beautiful  compan- 
ions, and  exclaimed,  with  mock  severity  of  aspect,  "Elsewhere 
I  also  would  have  my  admirers." 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  the  obtuseness  of  intellect  necessary 
to  misconstrue  so  obvious  a  piece  of  mock  petulance  and  dry 
humor  into  an  instance  of  mortified  vanity  and  jealous  self- 
conceit. 

Goldsmith  jealous  of  the  admiration  of  a  group  of  gay  officers 
for  the  charms  of  two  beautiful  young  women !  This  even 
out-Boswells  Boswell ;  yet  this  is  but  one  of  several  similar 
absurdities,  evidently  misconceptions  of  Goldsmith's  peculiar 
vein  of  humor,  by  which  the  charge  of  envious  jealousy  has 
been  attempted  to  be  fixed  upon  him.  In  the  present  instance 
it  was  contradicted  by  one  of  the  ladies  herself,  who  was  an- 
noyed that  it  had  been  advanced  against  him.  "  I  am  sure," 
said  she,  "  from  the  peculiar  manner  of  his  humor,  and  assumed 
frown  of  countenance,  what  was  often  uttered  in  jest  was  mis- 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  169 

taken,  by  those  who  did  not  know  him,  for  earnest."  No  one 
was  more  prone  to  err  on  this  point  than  Boswell.  He  had  a 
tolerable  perception  of  wit,  but  none  of  humor. 

The  following  letter  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  subsequently 
written : 

"  To  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

"  PARIS,  July  29  (1770). 

"Mr  DEAR  FRIEND  :  I  began  a  long  letter  to  you  from  Lisle, 
giving  a  description  of  all  that  we  had  done  and  seen,  but, 
finding  it  very  dull,  and  knowing  that  you  would  show  it  again, 
I  threw  it  aside  and  it  was  lost.  You  see  by  the  top  of  this  let- 
ter that  we  are  at  Paris,  and  (as  I  have  often  heard  you  say) 
we  have  brought  our  own  amusement  with  us,  for  the  ladies  do 
not  seem  to  be  very  fond  of  what  we  have  yet  seen. 

"  With  regard  to  myself,  I  find  that  travelling  at  twenty  and 
forty  are  very  different  things.  I  set  out  with  all  my  confirmed 
habits  about  me,  and  can  find  nothing  on  the  Continent  so  good 
as  when  I  formerly  left  it.  One  of  our  chief  amusements  here 
is  scolding  at  every  thing  we  meet  with,  and  praising  every 
thing  and  every  person  we  left  at  home.  You  may  judge, 
therefore,  whether  your  name  is  not  frequently  bandied  at  table 
among  us.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  never  thought  I  could  regret 
your  absence  so  much  as  our  various  mortifications  on  the  road 
have  often  taught  me  to  do.  I  could  tell  you  of  disasters  and 
adventures  without  number ;  of  our  lying  in  barns,  and  of  my  be- 
ing half  poisoned  with  a  dish  of  green  peas ;  of  our  quarrelling 
with  postilions,  and  being  cheated  by  our  landladies;  but  I 
reserve  all  this  for  a  happy  hour  which  I  expect  to  share  with 
you  upon  my  return. 

"  I  have  little  to  tell  you  more  but  that  we  are  at  present  all 
well,  and  expect  returning  when  we  have  stayed  out  one 
month,  which  I  do  not  care  if  it  were  over  this  very  day.  I 
long  to  hear  from  you  all,  how  you  yourself  do,  how  Johnson, 
Burke,  Dyer,  Chamier,  Colman,  and  every  one  of  the  club  do. 
I  wish  I  could  send  you  some  amusement  in  this  letter,  but  I 
protest  I  am  so  stupefied  by  the  air  of  this  country  (for  I  am 
sure  it  cannot  be  natural)  that  I  have  not  a  word  to  say.  I 
have  been  thinking  of  the  plot  of  a  comedy,  which  shall  be 
entitled  A  Journey  to  Pan's,  in  which  a  family  shall  be  intro- 
duced with  a  full  intention  of  going  to  France  to  save  money. 
You  know  there  is  not  a  place  in  the  world  more  promising 
for  that  purpose.  As  for  the  meat  of  this  country,  I  can 


170  OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 

scarce  eat  it;  and,  though  we  pay  two  good  shillings  a  head 
for  our  dinner,  I  find  it  all  so  tough  that  I  have  spent  less 
time  with  my  knife  than  my  toothpick.  I  said  this  as  a  good 
thing  at  the  table,  but  it  was  not  understood.  I  believe  it  to 
be  a  good  thing. 

"  As  for  our  intended  journey  to  Devonshire  I  find  it  out  of 
my  power  to  perform  it;  for,  as  soon  as  I  arrive  at  Dover, 
I  intend  to  let  the  ladies  go  on,  and  I  will  take  a  country 
lodging  somewhere  near  that  place  in  order  to  do  some  busi- 
ness. I  have  so  outrun  the  constable  that  I  must  mortify  a 
little  to  bring  it  up  again.  For  God's  sake,  the  night  you  re- 
ceive this,  take  your  pen  in  your  hand  and  tell  me  something 
about  yourself  and  myself,  if  you  know  any  thing  that  has 
happened.  About  Miss  Reynolds,  about  Mr.  Bickerstaff,  my 
nephew,  or  anybody  that  you  regard.  I  beg  you  will  send  to 
Griffin  the  bookseller  to  know  if  there  be  any  letters  left  for 
me,  and  be  so  good  as  to  send  them  to  me  at  Paris.  They  may 
perhaps  be  left  for  me  at  the  Porter's  Lodge,  opposite  the  pump 
in  Temple  Lane.  The  same  messenger  will  do.  I  expect  one 
from  Lord  Clare,  from  Ireland.  As  for  the  others,  I  am  not 
much  uneasy  about. 

"  Is  there  any  thing  I  can  do  for  you  at  Paris?  I  wish  you 
<vould  tell  me.  The  whole  of  my  own  purchases  here  is  one  silk 
coat,  which  I  have  put  on,  and  which  makes  me  look  like  a 
fool.  But  no  more  of  that.  I  find  that  Colman  has  gained  his 
law-suit.  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  suppose  you  often  meet.  I  will 
soon  be  among  you,  better  pleased  with  my  situation  at  home 
than  I  ever  was  before.  And  yet  I  must  say,  that  if  any  thing 
could  make  France  pleasant,  the  very  good  women  with  whom 
I  am  at  present  would  certainly  do  it.  I  could  say  more  about 
that,  but  I  intend  showing  them  the  letter  before  I  send  it  away. 
What  signifies  teasing  you  longer  with  moral  observations,  when 
the  business  of  my  writing  is  over?  I  have  one  thing  only  more 
to  say,  and  of  that  I  think  every  hour  in  the  day,  namely  that  I 
am  your  most  sincere  and  most  affectionate  friend, 

"OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

"  Direct  to  me  at  the  Hotel  de  Danemarc, ) 
Rue  Jacob,  Fauzbourg  St.  Germains."    } 

A  word  of  comment  on  this  letter : 

Travelling  is,  indeed,  a  very  different  thing  with  Goldsmith 
the  poor  student  at  twenty,  and  Goldsmith  the  poet  and  pro- 
fessor at  forty.  At  twenty,  though  obliged  to  trudge  on  foot 
from  town  to  town,  and  country  to  country,  paying  for  a  supper 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  171 

and  a  bed  by  a  tune  on  the  flute,  every  thing  pleased,  every  thing 
was  good  ;  a  truckle  bed  in  a  garret  was  a  couch  of  down,  and 
the  homely  fare  of  the  peasant  a  feast  fit  for  an  epicure.  Now, 
at  forty,  when  he  posts  through  the  country  in  a  carriage,  with 
fair  ladies  by  his  side,  every  thing  goes  wrong :  he  has  to  quar- 
rel with  postilions,  he  is  cheated  by  landladies,  the  hotels  are 
barns,  the  meat  is  too  tough  to  be  eaten,  and  he  is  half  poisoned 
by  green  peas  !  A  line  in  his  letter  explains  the  secret:  "  the 
ladies  do  not  seem  to  be  very  fond  of  what  we  have  yet  seen." 
"  One  of  our  chief  amusements  is  scolding  at  every  thing  we 
meet  with,  and  praising  every  thing  and  every  person  we  have 
left  at  home !"  the  true  English  travelling  amusement.  Poor 
Goldsmith  !  he  has  "  all  his  confirmed  habits  about  him  ;  "  that 
is  to  say,  he  has  recently  risen  into  high  life,  and  acquired  high- 
bred notions ;  he  must  be  fastidious  like  his  fellow-travellers ; 
he  dare  not  be  pleased  with  what  pleased  the  vulgar  tastes  of 
his  youth.  He  is  unconsciously  illustrating  the  trait  so  humor- 
ously satirized  by  him  in  Ned  Tibbs,  the  shabby  beau,  who  can 
find  "no  such  dressing  as  he  had  at  Lord  Crump's  or  Lady 
Crimp's  ;  "  whose  very  senses  have  grown  genteel,  and  who  no 
longer  "  smacks  at  wretched  wine  or  praises  detestable  custard." 
A  lurking  thorn,  too,  is  worrying  him  throughout  this  tour ;  he 
has  "  outrun  the  constable  ;  "  that  is  to  say,  his  expenses  have 
outrun  his  means,  and  he  will  have  to  make  up  for  this  butterfly 
flight  by  toiling  like  a  grub  on  his  return. 

Another  circumstance  contributes  to  mar  the  pleasure  he  had 
promised  himself  in  this  excursion.  At  Paris  the  party  is  unex- 
pectedly joined  by  a  Mr.  Hickey,  a  bustling  attorney,  who  is 
well  acquainted  with  that  metropolis  and  its  environs,  and  insists 
on  playing  the  cicerone  on  all  occasions.  He  and  Goldsmith 
do  not  relish  each  other,  and  they  have  several  petty  alterca- 
tions. The  lawyer  is  too  much  a  man  of  business  and  method 
for  the  careless  poet,  and  is  disposed  to  manage  every  thing. 
He  has  perceived  Goldsmith's  whimsical  peculiarities  without 
properly  appreciating  his  merits,  and  is  prone  to  indulge  in 
broad  bantering  and  raillery  at  his  expense,  particularly  irksome 
if  indulged  in  presence  of  the  ladies.  He  makes  himself  merry 
on  his  return  to  England,  by  giving  the  following  anecdote  as 
illustrative  of  Goldsmith's  vanity  : 

"  Being  with  a  party  at  Versailles,  viewing  the  waterworks, 
a  question  arose  among  the  gentlemen  present,  whether  the  dis- 
tance from  whence  they  stood  to  one  of  the  little  islands  was 
within  the  compass  of  a  leap.  Goldsmith  maintained  the  affirm- 
ative ;  but,  being  bantered  on  the  subject,  and  remembering  his 


172  OLIVER  GOLDSMITIT. 

former  prowess  as  a  youth,  attempted  the  leap,  but,  falling  short, 
descended  into  the  water,  to  the  great  amusement  of  the  com- 
pany. ' ' 

Was  the  Jessamy  Bride  a  witness  of  this  unlucky  exploit? 

This  same  Hickey  is  the  one  of  whom  Goldsmith,  some  time 
subsequently,  gave  a  good-humored  sketch,  in  his  poem  of  "  The 
Retaliation." 


11  Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt,  pleasant  creature, 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good  nature; 
He  cherish'd  his  friend,  and  he  relish'd  a  bumper, 
Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser; 
I  answer  No,  no,  for  he  always  was  wiser; 
Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat, 
His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that; 
Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 
And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest?    Ah,  no! 
Then  what  was  his  failing?    Come,  tell  it,  and  burn  ye— 
He  was,  could  he  help  it?  a  special  attorney." 


One  of  the  few  remarks  extant  made  by  Goldsmith  during  his 
tour  is  the  following,  of  whimsical  import,  in  his  "Animated 
Nature." 

"  In  going  through  the  towns  of  France,  some  time  since,  I 
could  not  help  observing  how  much  plainer  their  parrots  spoke 
than  ours,  and  how  very  distinctly  I  understood  their  parrots 
speak  French,  when  I  could  not  understand  our  own,  though 
they  spoke  my  native  language.  I  at  first  ascribed  it  to  the  dif- 
ferent qualities  of  the  two  languages,  and  was  for  entering  into 
an  elaborate  discussion  on  the  vowels  and  consonants ;  but  a 
friend  that  was  with  me  solved  the  difficulty  at  once,  by  assuring 
me  that  the  French  women  scarce  did  any  thing  else  the  whole 
day  than  sit  and  instruct  their  feathered  pupils ;  and  that  the 
birds  were  thus  distinct  in  their  lessons  in  consequence  of  con- 
tinual schooling." 

His  tour  does  not  seem  to  have  left  in  his  memory  the  most 
fragrant  recollections  ;  for,  being  asked,  after  his  return,  whether 
travelling  on  the  Continent  repaid  "  an  Englishman  for  the  pri- 
vations and  annoyances  attendant  on  it,"  he  replied,  "  I  recom- 
mend it  by  all  means  to  the  sick  if  they  are  without  the  sense 
of  smelling,  and  to  the  poor  if  they  are  without  the  sense  of  feel- 
ing; and  to  both  if  they  can  discharge  from  their  minds  all  idea 
of  what  in  England  we  term  comfort." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  universal  improvement  in  the  art 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  173 

of  living  on  the  Continent  has  at  the  present  clay  taken  away 
the  force  of  Goldsmith's  reply,  though  even  at  the  time  it  was 
more  humorous  than  correct. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

DEATH  OF  GOLDSMITH'S  MOTHER — BIOGRAPHY  OF  PARNELL  — 
AGREEMENT  WITH  DA  VIES  FOR  THE  HISTORY  OF  ROME  —  LIFE 
OF  BOLINGBROKE  —  THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON. 

ON  his  return  to  England,  Goldsmith  received  the  melancholy 
tidings  of  the  death  of  his  mother.  Notwithstanding  the  fame 
as  an  author  to  which  he  had  attained,  she  seems  to  have  been 
disappointed  in  her  early  expectations  from  him.  Like  others 
of  his  family,  she  had  been  more  vexed  by  his  early  follies  than 
pleased  by  his  proofs  of  genius  ;  and  in  subsequent  years,  when 
he  had  risen  to  fame  and  to  intercourse  with  the  great,  had  been 
annoyed  at  the  ignorance  of  the  world  and  want  of  management, 
which  prevented  him  from  pushing  his  fortune.  He  had  always, 
however,  been  an  affectionate  son,  and  in  the  latter  years  of  her 
life,  when  she  had  become  blind,  contributed  from  his  precarious 
resources  to  prevent  her  from  feeling  want. 

He  now  resumed  the  labors  of  the  pen,  which  his  recent  ex- 
cursion to  Paris  rendered  doubly  necessary.  We  should  have 
mentioned  a  "  Life  of  Parnell,"  published  by  him  shortly  after 
"  The  Deserted  Village."  It  was,  as  usual,  a  piece  of  job  work, 
hastily  got  up  for  pocket-money.  Johnson  spoke  slightingly  of 
it,  and  the  author,  himself,  thought  proper  to  apologize  for  its 
meagreness  ;  yet,  in  so  doing,  used  a  simile,  which  for  beauty  of 
imagery  and  felicity  of  language,  is  enough  of  itself  to  stamp  a 
value  upon  the  essay. 

"  Such,"  says  he,  "  is  the  very  unpoetical  detail  of  the  life  of 
a  poet.  Some  dates  and  some  few  facts,  scarcely  more  inter- 
esting than  those  that  make  the  ornaments  of  a  country  tomb- 
stone, are  all  that  remain  of  one  whose  labors  now  begin  to 
excite  universal  curiosity.  A  poet,  while  living,  is  seldom  an 
object  sufficiently  great  to  attract  much  attention  ;  his  real  merits 
are  known  but  to  a  few,  and  these  are  generally  sparing  in  their 
praises.  When  his  fame  is  increased  by  time,  it  is  then  too  late 
to  investigate  the  peculiarities  of  his  disposition  ;  the  dews  of 
morning  are  past,  and  we  vainly  try  to  continue  the  chase  by  the 
meridian  splendor." 


174  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

He  now  entered  into  an  agreement  with  Davies  to  prepare  an 
abridgment,  in  one  volume  duodecimo,  of  his  History  of  Rome  ; 
t)ut  first  to  write  a  work  for  which  there  was  a  more  immediate 
demand.  Davies  was  about  to  republish  Lord  Bolingbroke's 
"  Dissertation  on  Parties,"  which  he  conceived  would  be  ex- 
ceedingly applicable  to  the  affairs  of  the  day,  and  make  a  probable 
hit  during  the  existing  state  of  violent  political  excitement ;  to 
give  it  still  greater  effect  and  currency  he  engaged  Goldsmith 
to  introduce  it  with  a  prefatory  life  of  Lord  Bolingbroke. 

About  this  time  Goldsmith's  friend  and  countryman  Lord 
Clare,  was  in  great  affliction,  caused  by  the  death  of  his  only 
son,  Colonel  Nugent,  and  stood  in  need  of  the  sympathies  of  a 
kind-hearted  friend.  At  his  request,  therefore,  Goldsmith  paid 
ami  a  visit  at  his  seat  of  Gosfield,  taking  his  tasks  with 
him.  Davies  was  in  a  worry  lest  Gosfield  Park  should  prove  a 
Capua  to  the  poet,  and  the  time  be  lost.  "Dr.  Goldsmith," 
writes  he  to  a  friend,  "  has  gone  with  Lord  Clare  into  the  coun- 
try, and  I  am  plagued  to  get  the  proofs  from  him  of  the  Life  of 
Lord  Bolingbroke."  The  proofs,  however,  were  furnished  in 
time  for  the  publication  of  the  work  in  December.  The  Biog- 
raphy, though  written  during  a  time  of  political  turmoil,  and 
introducing  a  work  intended  to  be  thrown  into  the  arena  of 
politics,  maintained  that  freedom  from  party  prejudice  observ- 
able in  all  the  writings  of  Goldsmith.  It  was  a  selection  of 
facts  drawn  from  many  unreadable  sources,  and  arranged  into 
a  clear,  flowing  narrative,  illustrative  of  the  career  and  charac- 
ter of  one  who,  as  he  intimates,  "seemed  formed  by  nature  to 
take  delight  in  struggling  with  opposition ;  whose  most  agree- 
able hours  were  passed  in  storms  of  his  own  creating ;  whose 
life  was  spent  in  a  continual  conflict  of  politics,  and  as  if  that 
was  too  short  for  the  combat,  has  left  his  memory  as  a  subject 
of  lasting  contention.''  The  sum  received  by  the  author  for 
this  memoir,  is  supposed,  from  circumstances,  to  have  been  forty 
pounds. 

Goldsmith  did  not  find  the  residence  among  the  great  unat- 
tended with  mortifications.  He  had  now  become  accustomed 
to  be  regarded  in  London  as  a  literary  lion,  and  was  annoyed 
at  what  he  considered  a  slight,  on  the  part  of  Lord  Camdeu. 
He  complained  of  it  on  his  return  to  town  at  a  party  of  his 
friends.  "  I  met  him,"  said  he,  "  at  Lord  Clare's  house  in  the 
country ;  and  he  took  no  more  notice  of  me  than  if  I  had  been 
an  ordinary  man."  "  The  company,"  says  Boswell,  "laughed 
heartily  at  this  piece  of  'diverting  simplicity.'  "  And  fore- 
most among  the  laughers  was  doubtless  the  rattle-pated  Bos- 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  175 

well.  Johnson,  however,  stepped  forward,  as  usual,  to  defend 
the  poet,  whom  he  would  allow  no  one  to  assail  but  himself ; 
perhaps  in  the  present  instance  he  thought  the  dignity  of  litera- 
ture itself  involved  in  the  question.  '-  Nay,  gentlemen,"  roared 
he,  "  Dr.  Goldsmith  is  in  the  right.  A  nobleman  ought  to  have 
made  up  to  such  a  man  as  Goldsmith,  and  I  think  it  is  much 
against  Lord  Camden  that  he  neglected  him." 

After  Goldsmith's  return  to  town  he  received  from  Lord 
Clare  a  present  of  game,  which  he  has  celebrated  and  perpetu- 
ated in  his  amusing  verses  entitled  the  "  Haunch  of  Venison." 
Some  of  the  lines  pleasantly  set  forth  the  embarrassment  caused 
by  the  appearance  of  such  an  aristocratic  delicacy  in  the  humble 
kitchen  of  a  poet,  accustomed  to  look  up  to  mutton  as  a  treat : 

0  Thanks,  my  lord,  for  your  venison;  for  finer  or  fatter 
Never  rang'd  in  a  forest,  or  smok'd  in  a  platter : 
The  haunch  was  a  picture  for  painters  to  study, 
The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy; 
Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I  could  scarce  help  regretting, 
To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  by  eating : 
I  had  thought  in  my  chambers  to  place  it  in  view,' 
To  be  shown  to  my  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtu : 
As  in  some  Irish  houses  where  things  are  so-so, 
One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show ; 
But,  for  eating  a  rasher,  of  what  they  take  pride  In, 
They'd  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  was  fry'd  in. 


But  hang  it  —  to  poets,  who  seldom  can  eat, 
Your  very  good  mutton's  a  very  good  treat; 
Such  dainties  to  them,  their  health  it  might  hurt; 
It's  like  sending  them  ruffles  when  wanting  a  shirt." 

We  have  an  amusing  anecdote  of  one  of  Goldsmith's  blun- 
ders which  took  place  on  a  subsequent  visit  to  Lord  Clare's, 
when  that  nobleman  was  residing  in  Bath. 

Lord  Clare  and  the  Duke  of  Northumberland  had  houses 
next  to  each  other,  of  similar  architecture.  Returning  home 
one  morning  from  an  early  walk,  Goldsmith,  in  one  of  his  fre- 
quent fits  of  absence,  mistook  the  house,  and  walked  up  into 
the  duke's  dining-room,  where  he  and  the  duchess  were  about 
to  sit  down  to  breakfast.  Goldsmith,  still  supposing  himself 
in  the  house  of  Lord  Clare,  and  that  they  were  visitors,  made 
them  an  easy  salutation,  being  acquainted  with  them,  and  threw 
himself  on  a  sofa  in  the  lounging  manner  of  a  man  perfectly  at 
home.  The  duke  and  duchess  soon  perceived  his  mistake,  and, 
while  they  smiled  internally,  endeavored,  with  the  considerate- 
ness  of  well-bred  people,  to  prevent  any  awkward  embarrass- 


176  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

ment.  They  accordingly  chatted  sociably  with  him  about 
matters  in  Bath,  until,  breakfast  being  served,  they  invited  him 
to  partake.  The  truth  at  once  flashed  upon  poor  heedless 
Goldsmith  ;  he  started  up  from  his  free-and-easy  position,  made 
a  confused  apology  for  his  blunder,  and  would  have  retired 
perfectly  disconcerted,  had  not  the  duke  and  duchess  treated 
the  whole  as  a  lucky  occurrence  to  throw  him  in  their  way,  and 
exacted  a  promise  from  him  to  dine  with  them. 

This  may  be  hung  up  as  a  companion-piece  to  his  blunder  on 
his  first  visit  to  Northumberland  House. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

DINNER  AT  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY THE  ROWLEY  CONTROVERSY  

HORACE  WALPOLE'S   CONDUCT  TO  CHATTERTON  —  JOHNSON  AT 

REDCLIFFE   CHURCH  GOLDSMITH'S   HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND  

DA  VIES' S  CRITICISM  LETTER  TO  BENNET  LANGTON. 

ON  St.  George's  day  of  this  year  (1771),  the  first  annual  ban- 
quet of  the  Royal  Academy  was  held  in  the  exhibition  room ; 
the  walls  of  which  were  covered  with  works  of  art,  about  to  be 
submitted  to  public  inspection.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who  first 
suggested  this  elegant  festival,  presided  in  his  official  character ; 
Drs.  Johnson  and  Goldsmith,  of  course,  were  present,  as  pro- 
fessors of  the  academy ;  and  beside  the  academicians,  there  was 
a  large  number  of  the  most  distinguished  men  of  the  day  as 
guests.  Goldsmith  on  this  occasion  drew  on  himself  the  atten- 
tion of  the  company  by  launching  out  with  enthusiasm  on  the 
poems  recently  given  to  the  world  by  Chatterton  as  the  works 
of  an  ancient  author  by  the  name  of  Rowley,  discovered  in  the 
tower  of  Redcliffe  Church,  at  Bristol.  Goldsmith  spoke  of  them 
with  rapture,  as  a  treasure  of  old  English  poetry.  This  imme- 
diately raised  the  question  of  their  authenticity ;  they  having 
been  pronounced  a  forgery  of  Chatterton's.  Goldsmith  was 
warm  for  their  being  genuine.  When  he  considered,  he  said, 
the  merit  of  the  poetry ;  the  acquaintance  with  life  and  the 
human  heart  displayed  in  them,  the  antique  quaintuess  of  the 
language  and  the  familiar  knowledge  of  historical  events  of 
their  supposed  day,  he  could  not  believe  it  possible  they  could 
be  the  work  of  a  boy  of  sixteen,  of  narrow  education,  and  con- 
fined to  the  duties  of  an  attorney's  office.  They  must  be  the 
productions  of  Rowley. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  177 

Johnson,  who  was  a  stout  unbeliever  in  Rowley,  aa  he  had 
been  in  Ossian,  rolled  in  his  chair  and  laughed  at  the  enthusi- 
asm of  Goldsmith.  Horace  Walpole,  who  sat  near  by,  joined 
in  the  laugh  and  jeer  as  soon  as  he  found  that  the  "  trouvaille," 
as  he  called  it,  "of  his  friend  Chatterton  "  was  in  question. 
This  matter,  which  had  excited  the  simple  admiration  of  Gold- 
smith, was  no  novelty  to  him,  he  said.  "He  might,  had  he 
pleased,  have  had  the  honor  of  ushering  the  great  discovery  to 
the  learned  world."  And  so  he  might,  had  he  followed  his  first 
impulse  in  the  matter,  for  he  himself  had  been  an  original  be- 
liever ;  had  pronounced  some  specimen  verses  sent  to  him  by 
Chatterton  wonderful  for  their  harmony  and  spirit ;  and  had 
been  ready  to  print  them  and  publish  them  to  the  world  with 
his  sanction.  When  he  found,  however,  that  his  unknown  cor- 
respondent was  a  mere  boy,  humble  in  sphere  and  indigent  in 
circumstances,  and  when  Gray  and  Mason  pronounced  the 
poems  forgeries,  he  had  changed  his  whole  conduct  toward  the 
unfortunate  author,  and  by  his  neglect  and  coldness  had  dashed 
all  his  sanguine  hopes  to  the  ground. 

Exulting  in  his  superior  discernment,  this  cold-hearted  man 
of  society  now  went  on  to  divert  himself,  as  he  says,  with  the 
credulity  of  Goldsmith,  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  pronounce 
"an  inspired  idiot;"  but  his  mirth  was  soon  dashed,  for  on 
asking  the  poet  what  had  become  of  this  Chatterton,  he  was 
answered,  doubtless  in  the  feeling  tone  of  one  who  had  expe- 
rienced the  pangs  of  despondent  genius,  that  "  he  had  been  to 
London  and  had  destroyed  himself." 

The  reply  struck  a  pang  of  self-reproach  even  to  the  cold 
heart  of  Walpole  ;  a  faint  blush  may  have  visited  his  cheek  at 
his  recent  levity.  "The  persons  of  honor  and  veracity  who 
were  present,"  said  he  in  after  years,  when  he  found  it  neces- 
sary to  exculpate  himself  from  the  charge  of  heartless  neglect 
of  genius,  "  will  attest  with  what  surprise  and  concern  I  thus 
first  heard  of  his  death."  Well  might  he  feel  concern.  His 
cold  neglect  had  doubtless  contributed  to  madden  the  spirit  of 
that  youthful  genius,  and  hurry  him  toward  his  untimely  end  ; 
nor  have  all  the  excuses  and  palliations  of  Walpole's  friends 
and  admirers  been  ever  able  entirely  to  clear  this  stigma  from 
his  fame. 

But  what  was  there  in  the  enthusiasm  and  credulity  of  honest 
Goldsmith  in  this  matter,  to  subject  him  to  the  laugh  of  John- 
son or  the  raillery  of  Walpole  ?  Granting  the  poems  were  not 
ancient,  were  they  not  good  ?  Granting  they  were  not  the  pro- 
ductions of  Rowley,  were  they  the  less  admirable  for  being  the 


178  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

productions  of  Chatterton?  Johnson  himself  testified  to  their 
merits  and  the  genius  of  their  composer  when,  some  years  after- 
ward, he  visited  the  tower  of  Redcliffe  Church,  and  was  shown 
the  coffer  in  which  poor  Chatterton  had  pretended  to  find  them. 
"  This,"  said  he,  "  is  the  most  extraordinary  young  man  that 
has  encountered  my  knowledge.  It  is  wonderful  how  the  whelp 
has  written  such  things." 

As  to  Goldsmith,  he  persisted  in  his  credulity,  and  had  sub- 
sequently a  dispute  with  Dr.  Percy  on  the  subject,  which  in- 
terrupted and  almost  destroyed  their  friendship.  After  all,  his 
enthusiasm  was  of  a  generous,  poetic  kind ;  the  poems  remain 
beautiful  monuments  of  genius,  and  it  is  even  now  difficult  to 
persuade  one's  self  that  they  could  be  entirely  the  production 
of  a  youth  of  sixteen. 

In  the  month  of  August  was  published  anonymously  the  His- 
tory of  England,  on  which  Goldsmith  had  been  for  some  time 
employed.  It  was  in  four  volumes,  compiled  chiefly,  as  he  ac- 
knowledged in  the  preface,  from  Rapin,  Carte,  Smollett,  and 
Hume,  "each  of  whom,"  says  he,  "have  their  admirers,  in 
proportion  as  the  reader  is  studious  of  political  antiquities, 
fond  of  minute  anecdote,  a  warm  partisan,  or  a  deliberate  rea- 
soner."  It  possessed  the  same  kind  of  merit  as  bis  other  his- 
torical compilations  ;  a  clear,  succinct  narrative,  a  simple,  easy, 
and  graceful  style,  and  an  agreeable  arrangement  of  facts  ;  but 
was  not  remarkable  for  either  depth  of  observation  or  minute 
accuracy  of  research.  Many  passages  were  transferred,  with 
little  if  any  alteration,  from  his  "  Letters  from  a  Nobleman  to 
his  Son  "  on  the  same  subject.  The  work,  though  written  with- 
out party  feeling,  met  with  sharp  animadversions  from  political 
scribblers.  The  writer  was  charged  with  being  unfriendly  to 
liberty,  disposed  to  elevate  monarchy  above  its  proper  sphere  ; 
a  tool  of  ministers  ;  one  who  would  betray  his  country  for  a 
pension.  Tom  Davies,  the  publisher,  the  pompous  little  bibli- 
opole of  Russell  Street,  alarmed  lest  the  book  should  prove 
unsalable,  undertook  to  protect  it  by  his  pen,  and  wrote  a  long 
article  in  its  defence  in  TJie  Public  Advertiser.  He  was  vain  of 
his  critical  effusion,  and  sought  by  nods  and  winks  and  innuen- 
does to  intimate  his  authorship.  "  Have  you  seen,"  said  he  in 
a  letter  to  a  friend,  "'An  Impartial  Account  of  Goldsmith's 
History  of  England  '  ?  If  you  want  to  know  who  was  the  writer 
of  it,  you  will  find  him  in  Russell  Street ;  —  but  mum ! ' ' 

The  history,  on  the  whole,  however,  was  well  received  ;  some 
of  the  critics  declared  that  English  history  had  never  before 
been  so  usefully,  so  elegantly,  and  agreeably  epitomized,  "  and, 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  179 

like  his  other  historical  writings,  it  has  kept  its  ground  "  in 
English  literature. 

Goldsmith  had  intended  this  summer,  in  company  with  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  to  pay  a  visit  to  Bennet  Langton,  at  his  seat 
in  Lincolnshire,  where  he  was  settled  in  domestic  life,  having 
the  year  previous!}-  married  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Rothes. 
The  following  letter,  however,  dated  from  his  chambers  in  the 
Temple,  on  the  7th  of  September,  apologizes  for  putting  off  the 
visit,  while  it  gives  an  amusing  account  of  his  summer  occu- 
pations and  of  the  attacks  of  the  critics  on  his  History  of  Eng- 
land : 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR  :  Since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  last, 
I  have  been  almost  wholly  in  the  country,  at  a  farmer's  house, 
quite  alone,  trying  to  write  a  comedy.  It  is  now  finished  ;  but 
when  or  how  it  will  be  acted,  or  whether  it  will  be  acted  at  all, 
are  questions  I  cannot  resolve.  I  am  therefore  so  much  em- 
ployed upon  that,  that  I  am  under  the  necessity  of  putting  off 
my  intended  visit  to  Lincolnshire  for  this  season.  Reynolds  is 
just  returned  from  Paris,  and  finds  himself  now  in  the  case  of 
a  truant  that  must  make  up  for  his  idle  time  by  diligence. 
We  have  therefore  agreed  to  postpone  our  journey  till  next 
summer,  when  we  hope  to  have  the  honor  of  waiting  upon 
Lady  Rothes  and  you,  and  staying  double  the  time  of  our  late 
intended  visit.  We  often  meet,  and  never  without  remember- 
ing you.  I  see  Mr.  Beauclerc  very  often  both  in  town  and 
country.  He  is  now  going  directly  forward  to  become  a  second 
Boyle  ;  deep  in  chemistry  and  physics.  Johnson  has  been  down 
on  a  visit  to  a  country  parson,  Dr.  Taylor ;  and  is  returned 
to  his  old  haunts  at  Mrs.  Thrale's.  Burke  is  a  farmer,  en  at- 
tendant a  better  place ;  but  visiting  about  too.  Every  soul  is 
visiting  about  and  merry  but  myself.  And  that  is  hard  too,  as 
I  have  been  trying  these  three  months  to  do  something  to  make 
people  laugh.  There  have  I  been  strolling  about  the  hedges, 
studying  jests  with  a  most  tragical  countenance.  The  Natural 
History  is  about  half  finished,  and  I  will  shortly  finish  the  rest. 
God  knows  I  am  tired  of  this  kind  of  finishing,  which  is  but 
bungling  work ;  and  that  not  so  much  my  fault  as  the  fault  of 
my  scurvy  circumstances.  They  begin  to  talk  in  town  of  the 
Opposition's  gaining  ground  ;  the  cry  of  liberty  is  still  as  loud 
as  ever.  I  have  published,  or  Davies  has  published  for  me,  an 
'Abridgment  of  the  History  of  England,'  for  which  I  have 
been  a  good  deal  abused  in  the  newspapers,  for  betraying  the 
liberties  of  the  people.  God  knows  I  had  no  thought  for  or 


180  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

against  liberty  in  my  head ;  my  whole  aim  being  to  make  up  a 
book  of  a  decent  size,  that,  as  'Squire  Richard  says,  would  do 
no  harm  to  nobody.  However,  they  set  me  down  as  an  arrant 
Tory,  and  consequently  an  honest  man.  When  you  come  to 
look  at  any  part  of  it,  you'll  say  that  I  am  a  sore  Whig.  God 
bless  you,  and  with  my  most  respectful  compliments  to  hei 
Ladyship,  I  remain,  dear  Sir,  your  most  affectionate  humble* 
servant, 

«  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.'' 


CHAPTER  XXXH. 

MARRIAGE    OF   LITTLE    COMEDY  —  GOLDSMITH    AT     BARTON PRAC- 
TICAL  JOKES   AT   THE   EXPENSE     OF    HIS    TOILET AMUSEMENTS 

AT    BARTON AQUATIC    MISADVENTURE. 

THOUGH  Goldsmith  found  it  impossible  to  break  from  his 
literary  occupations  to  visit  Bennet  Langton,  in  Lincolnshire, 
he  soon  yielded  to  attractions  from  another  quarter,  in  which 
somewhat  of  sentiment  may  have  mingled.  Miss  Catherine 
Horneck,  one  of  his  beautiful  fellow-travellers,  otherwise  called 
Little  Comedy,  had  been  married  in  August  to  Henry  William 
Bunbury,  Esq.,  a  gentleman  of  fortune,  who  has  become  cele- 
brated for  the  humorous  productions  of  his  pencil.  Goldsmith 
was  shortly  afterward  invited  to  pay  the  newly  married  couple 
a  visit  at  their  seat  at  Barton,  in  Suffolk.  How  could  he  re- 
sist such  an  invitation  —  especially  as  the  Jessamy  Bride  would, 
of  course,  be  among  the  guests  ?  It  is  true,  he  was  hampered 
with  work  ;  he  was  still  more  hampered  with  debt ;  his  accounts 
with  Newbery  were  perplexed  ;  but  all  must  give  way.  New 
advances  are  procured  from  Newbery,  on  the  promise  of  a  new 
tale  in  the  style  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  of  which  he  showed 
him  a  few  roughly-sketched  chapters  ;  so,  his  purse  replenished 
in  the  old  way,  "  by  hook  or  by  crook,"  he  posted  off  to  visit 
the  bride  at  Barton.  He  found  there  a  joyous  household,  and 
one  where  he  was  welcomed  with  affection.  Garrick  was 
there,  and  played  the  part  of  master  of  the  revels,  for  he  was 
an  intimate  friend  of  the  master  of  the  house.  Notwithstand- 
ing early  misunderstandings,  a  social  intercourse  between  the 
actor  and  the  poet  had  grown  up  of  late,  from  meeting  together 
continually  in  the  same  circle.  A  few  particulars  have  reached 
us  concerning  Goldsmith  while  on  this  happy  visit.  We  be- 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  181 

lieve  the  legend  has  come  down  from  Miss  Mary  Horneck  her- 
self. "  While  at  Barton,"  she  says,  "  his  manners  were  always 
playful  and  amusing,  taking  the  lead  in  promoting  any  scheme 
of  innocent  mirth,  and  usually  prefacing  the  invitation  with 
'  Come,  now,  let  us  play  the  fool  a  little.'  At  cards,  which  was 
commonly  a  round  game,  and  the  stake  small,  he  was  always 
the  most  noisy,  affected  great  eagerness  to  win,  and  teased  his 
opponents  of  the  gentler  sex  with  continual  jest  and  banter  on 
their  want  of  spirit  in  not  risking  the  hazards  of  the  game. 
But  one  of  his  most  favorite  enjoyments  was  to  romp  with  the 
children,  when  he  threw  off  all  reserve,  and  seemed  one  of  the 
most  joyous  of  the  group. 

"  One  of  the  means  by  which  he  amused  us  was  his  songs, 
chiefly  of  the  comic  kind,  which  were  sung  with  some  taste 
and  humor ;  several,  I  believe,  were  of  his  own  composition, 
and  I  regret  that  I  neither  have  copies,  which  might  have  been 
readily  procured  from  him  at  the  time,  nor  do  I  remember  their 
names." 

His  perfect  good  humor  made  him  the  object  of  tricks  of  all 
kinds  ;  often  in  retaliation  of  some  prank  which  he  himself  had 
played  off.  Unluckily  these  tricks  were  sometimes  made  at 
the  expense  of  his  toilet,  which,  with  a  view  peradventure  to 
please  the  eye  of  a  certain  fair  lady,  he  had  again  enriched  to 
the  impoverishment  of  his  purse.  "  Being  at  all  times  gay  in 
his  dress,"  says  this  ladylike  legend,  "  he  made  his  appearance 
at  the  breakfast-table  in  a  smart  black  silk  coat  with  an  expen- 
sive pair  of  ruffles  ;  the  coat  some  one  contrived  to  soil,  and  it 
was  sent  to  be  cleansed ;  but,  either  by  accident,  or  probably 
by  design,  the  day  after  it  came  home,  the  sleeves  became 
daubed  with  paint,  which  was  not  discovered  until  the  ruffles 
also,  to  his  great  mortification,  were  irretrievably  disfigured. 

"  He  always  wore  a  wig,  a  peculiarity  which  those  who  judge 
of  his  appearance  only  from  the  fine  poetical  head  of  Reynolds 
would  not  suspect ;  and  on  one  occasion  some  person  contrived 
seriously  to  injure  this  important  adjunct  to  dress.  It  was  the 
only  one  he  had  in  the  country,  and  the  misfortune  seemed  ir- 
reparable until  the  services  of  Mr.  Bunbury's  valet  were  called 
in,  who,  however,  performed  his  functions  so  indifferently  that 
poor  Goldsmith's  appearance  became  the  signal  for  a  general 
smile." 

This  was  wicked  waggery,  especially  when  it  was  directed  to 
mar  all  the  attempts  of  the  unfortunate  poet  to  improve  h»s 
personal  appearance,  about  which  he  was  at  all  times  dubiously 
sensitive,  and  particularly  when  among  the  ladies. 


182  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

We  have  in  a  former  chapter  recorded  his  unlucky  tumble 
into  a  fountain  at  Versailles,  when  attempting  a  feat  of  agility 
in  presence  of  the  fair  Hornecks.  Water  was  destined  to  be 
equally  baneful  to  him  on  the  present  occasion.  "  Some  differ- 
ence of  opinion,"  says  the  fair  narrator,  "having  arisen  with 
Lord  Harrington  respecting  the  depth  of  a  pond,  the  poet  re- 
marked that  it  was  not  so  deep  but  that,  if  any  thing  valuable 
was  to  be  found  at  the  bottom,  he  would  not  hesitate  to  pick  it 
up.  His  lordship,  after  some  banter,  threw  in  a  guinea ;  Gold- 
smith, not  to  be  outdone  in  this  kind  of  bravado,  in  attempting 
to  fulfil  his  promise  without  getting  wet,  accidentally  fell  in, 
to  the  amusement  of  all  present,  but  persevered,  brought  out 
the  money,  and  kept  it,  remarking  that  he  had  abundant  objects 
on  whom  to  bestow  any  farther  proofs  of  his  lordship's  whim  or 
bounty." 

All  this  is  recorded  by  the  beautiful  Mary  Horneck,  the  Jes- 
samy  Bride  herself ;  but  while  she  gives  these  amusing  pictures 
of  poor  Goldsmith's  eccentricities,  and  of  the  mischievous 
pranks  played  off  upon  him,  she  bears  unqualified  testimony, 
which  we  have  quoted  elsewhere,  to  the  qualities  of  his  head 
and  heart,  which  shone  forth  in  his  countenance,  and  gained 
him  the  love  of  all  who  knew  him. 

Among  the  circumstances  of  this  visit  vaguely  called  to  mind 
by  this  fair  lady  in  after  years,  was  that  Goldsmith  read  to  her 
and  her  sister  the  first  part  of  a  novel  which  he  had  in  hand. 
It  was  doubtless  the  manuscript  mentioned  at  the  beginning  of 
this  chapter,  on  which  he  had  obtained  an  advance  of  money 
from  Newbery  to  stave  off  some  pressing  debts,  and  to  provide 
funds  for  this  very  visit.  It  never  was  finished.  The  book- 
seller, when  he  came  afterward  to  examine  the  manuscript,  ob- 
jected to  it  as  a  mere  narrative  version  of  the  Good-Natured 
Man.  Goldsmith,  too  easily  put  out  of  conceit  of  his  writings, 
threw  it  aside,  forgetting  that  this  was  the  very  Newbery  who 
kept  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield  by  him  nearly  two  years  through 
doubts  of  its  success.  The  loss  of  the  manuscript  is  deeply  to 
be  regretted  ;  it  doubtless  would  have  been  properly  wrought 
up  before  given  to  the  press,  and  might  have  given  us  new 
scenes  in  life  and  traits  of  character,  while  it  could  not  fail  to 
bear  traces  of  his  delightful  style.  What  a  pity  he  had  not 
been  guided  by  the  opinions  of  his  fair  listeners  at  Barton, 
instead  of  that  of  the  astute  Mr.  Newbery ! 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  183 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

DINNER    AT    GENERAL    OGLETHORPE'S ANECDOTES    OF    THE    GEN- 
ERAL  DISPUTE   ABOUT   DUELLING  —  GHOST   STORIES. 

WE  have  mentioned  old  General  Oglethorpe  as  one  of  Gold- 
smith's aristocratical  acquaintances.  This  veteran,  born  in  1698, 
had  commenced  life  early,  by  serving,  when  a  mere  stripling, 
under  Prince  Eugene,  against  the  Turks.  He  had  continued  in 
military  life,  and  been  promoted  to  the  rank  of  major-general 
in  1745,  and  received  a  command  during  the  Scottish  rebellion. 
Being  of  strong  Jacobite  tendencies,  he  was  suspected  and  ac- 
cused of  favoring  the  rebels ;  and  though  acquitted  by  a  court 
of  inquiry,  was  never  afterward  employed ;  or,  in  technical  lan- 
guage, was  shelved.  He  had  since  been  repeatedly  a  member  of 
parliament,  and  had  always  distinguished  himself  by  learning, 
taste,  active  benevolence,  and  high  Tory  principles.  His  name, 
however,  has  become  historical,  chiefly  from  his  transactions  in 
America,  and  the  share  he  took  in  the  settlement  of  the  colony 
of  Georgia.  It  lies  embalmed  in  honorable  immortality  in  a 
single  line  of  Pope's : 

"  One,  driven  by  strong  benevolence  of  soul, 
Shall  fly,  like  Oglethorpe,  from  pole  to  pole." 

The  veteran  was  now  seventy-four  years  of  age,  but  healthy 
and  vigorous,  and  as  much  the  preux  chevalier  as  in  his  younger 
days,  when  he  served  with  Prince  Eugene.  His  table  was  often 
the  gathering-place  of  men  of  talent.  Johnson  was  frequently 
there,  and  delighted  in  drawing  from  the  general  details  of  his 
various  "  experiences."  He  was  anxious  that  he  should  give 
the  world  his  life.  "I  know  no  man,"  said  he,  "whose  life 
would  be  more  interesting."  Still  the  vivacity  of  the  general's 
mind  and  the  variety  of  his  knowledge  made  him  skip  from  sub- 
ject to  subject  too  fast  for  the  Lexicographer.  "Oglethorpe," 
growled  he,  "  never  completes  what  he  has  to  say." 

Boswell  gives  us  an  interesting  and  characteristic  account  of 
a  dinner  party  at  the  general's  (April  10th,  1772),  at  which 
Goldsmith  and  Johnson  were  present.  After  dinner,  when  the 
cloth  was  removed,  Oglethorpe,  at  Johnson's  request,  gave  an 
account  of  the  siege  of  Belgrade,  in  the  true  veteran  style. 
Pouring  a  little  wine  upon  the  table,  he  drew  his  lines  and  par 


184  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

allels  with  a  wet  finger,  describing  the  positions  of  the  opposing 
forces.  "Here  were  we  —  here  were  the  Turks,"  to  all  which 
Johnson  listened  with  the  most  earnest  attention,  poring  over 
the  plans  and  diagrams  with  his  usual  purblind  closeness. 

In  the  course  of  conversation,  the  general  gave  an  anecdote 
of  himself  in  early  life,  when  serving  under  Prince  Eugene. 
Sitting  at  table  once  in  company  with  a  prince  of  Wurtem- 
berg,  the  latter  gave  a  fillip  to  a  glass  of  wine,  so  as  to  make 
some  of  it  fly  in  Oglethorpe's  face.  The  manner  in  which  it 
was  done  was  somewhat  equivocal.  How  was  it  to  be  taken  by 
the  stripling  officer  ?  If  seriously,  he  must  challenge  the  prince  ; 
but  in  so  doing  he  might  fix  on  himself  the  character  of  a  draw- 
cansir.  If  passed  over  without  notice,  he  might  be  charged  with 
cowardice.  His  mind  was  made  up  in  an  instant.  "Prince," 
said  he,  smiling,  "  that  is  an  excellent  joke  ;  but  we  do  it  much 
better  in  England."  So  saying,  he  threw  a  whole  glass  of  wine 
in  the  prince's  face.  "II  a  bien  fait,  mon  prince,"  cried  an 
old  general  present,  "vousl'avez  commence"."  (He  has  done 
right,  my  prince  ;  you  commenced  it.)  The  prince  had  the  good 
sense  to  acquiesce  in  the  decision  of  the  veteran,  and  Ogle- 
thorpe's retort  in  kind  was  taken  in  good  part. 

It  was  probably  at  the  close  of  this  story  that  the  officious 
Boswell,  ever  anxious  to  promote  conversation  for  the  benefit 
of  his  note-book,  started  the  question  whether  duelling  were 
consistent  with  moral  duty.  The  old  gentleman  fired  up  in  an 
instant.  "  Undoubtedly,"  said  he,  with  a  lofty  air;  "  undoubt- 
edly a  man  has  a  right  to  defend  his  honor."  Goldsmith  im- 
mediately carried  the  war  into  BoswelPs  own  quarters,  and 
pinned  him  with  the  question,  "  what  he  would  do  if  affronted?  " 
The  pliant  Boswell,  who  for  the  moment  had  the  fear  of  the 
general  rather  than  of  Johnson  before  his  eyes,  replied,  "  he 
should  think  it  necessary  to  fight."  "  Why,  then,  that  solves 
the  question,"  replied  Goldsmith.  "No,  sir!  "  thundered  out 
Johnson;  "it  does  not  follow  that  what  a  man  would  do,  is 
therefore  right."  He,  however,  subsequently  went  into  a  dis- 
cussion to  show  that  there  were  necessities  in  the  case  arising 
out  of  the  artificial  refinement  of  society,  and  its  proscription 
of  any  one  who  should  put  up  with  an  affront  without  fighting 
a  duel.  "He  then,"  concluded  he,  "who  fights  a  duel  does 
not  fight  from  passion  against  his  antagonist,  but  out  of  self- 
defence,  to  avert  the  stigma  of  the  world,  and  to  prevent  him- 
self from  being  driven  out  of  society.  I  could  wish  there  were 
not  that  superfluity  of  refinement ;  but  while  such  notions  pre- 
vail, no  doubt  a  man  may  lawfully  fight  a  duel." 


GENERAL   OGLETHORPE. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  185 

Another  question  started  was,  whether  people  who  disagreed 
on  a  capital  point  could  live  together  in  friendship.  Johnson 
said  they  might.  Goldsmith  said  they  could  not,  as  they  had 
not  the  idem  velle  atque  idem  nolle  —  the  same  likings  and 
aversions.  Johnson  rejoined,  that  they  must  shun  the  subject 
on  which  they  disagreed.  "  But,  sir,"  said  Goldsmith,  "  when 
people  live  together  who  have  something  as  to  which  they  dis- 
agree, and  which  they  want  to  shun,  they  will  be  in  the  situ- 
ation mentioned  in  the  story  of  Blue  Beard :  '  you  may  look  into 
all  the  chambers  but  one ;  '  but  we  should  have  the  greatest 
inclination  to  look  into  that  chamber,  to  talk  of  that  subject." 
"  Sir,"  thundered  Johnson,  in  a  loud  voice,  "  I  am  not  saying 
that  you  could  live  in  friendship  with  a  man  from  whom  you 
differ  as  to  some  point ;  I  am  only  saying  that  /could  do  it." 

Who  will  not  say  that  Goldsmith  had  the  best  of  this  petty 
contest?  How  just  was  his  remark!  how  felicitous  the  illus- 
tration of  the  blue  chamber !  how  rude  and  overbearing  was  the 
argumentum  ad  hominem  of  Johnson,  when  he  felt  that  he  had 
the  worst  of  the  argument ! 

The  conversation  turned  upon  ghosts.  General  Oglethorpe 
told  the  story  of  a  Colonel  Prendergast,  an  officer  in  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough's  army,  who  predicted  among  his  comrades 
that  he  should  die  on  a  certain  day.  The  battle  of  Malplaquet 
took  place  on  that  day.  The  colonel  was  in  the  midst  of  it,  but 
came  out  unhurt.  The  firing  had  ceased,  and  his  brother  officers 
jested  with  him  about  the  fallacy  of  his  prediction.  "  The  day 
is  not  over,"  replied  he,  gravely  ;  "  I  shall  die,  notwithstanding 
what  you  see."  His  words  proved  true.  The  order  for  a  ces- 
sation of  firing  had  not  reached  one  of  the  French  batteries,  and 
a  random  shot  from  it  killed  the  colonel  on  the  spot.  Among  his 
effects  was  found  a  pocket-book,  in  which  he  had  made  a  solemn 
entry,  that  Sir  John  Friend,  who  had  been  executed  for  high 
treason,  had  appeared  to  him,  either  in  a  dream  or  vision,  and 
predicted  that  he  would  meet  him  on  a  certain  day  (the  very 
day  of  the  battle).  Colonel  Cecil,  who  took  possession  of  the 
effects  of  Colonel  Prendergast,  and  read  the  entry  in  the  pocket- 
book,  told  this  story  to  Pope,  the  poet,  in  the  presence  of  Gen- 
eral Oglethorpe. 

This  story,  as  related  by  the  general,  appears  to  have  been 
well  received,  if  not  credited,  by  both  Johnson  and  Goldsmith, 
each  of  whom  had  something  to  relate  in  kind.  Goldsmith's 
brother,  the  clergyman  in  whom  he  had  such  implicit  confidence, 
had  assured  him  of  his  having  seen  an  apparition.  Johnson 
also  had  a  friend,  old  Mr.  Cave,  the  printer,  at  St.  John's  Gate, 


186  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

4 '  an  honest  man,  and  a  sensible  man,"  who  told  him  he  had 
seen  a  ghost :  he  did  not,  however,  like  to  talk  of  it,  and  seemed 
to  be  in  great  horror  whenever  it  was  mentioned.  "  And  pray, 
sir,"  asked  Bos  well,  "  what  did  he  say  was  the  appearance?  " 

"Why,  sir,  something  of  a  shadowy  being." 

The  reader  will  not  be  surprised  at  this  superstitious  turn  in 
the  conversation  of  such  intelligent  men,  when  he  recollects  that, 
but  a  few  years  before  this  time,  all  London  had  been  agitated 
by  the  absurd  story  of  the  Cock-lane  ghost ;  a  matter  which  Dr. 
Johnson  had  deemed  worthj'  of  his  serious  investigation,  and 
about  which  Goldsmith  had  written  a  pamphlet. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

kB.     JOSEPH   CRADOCK  —  AN   AUTHOR'S     CONFIDINGS AN     AMAN- 
UENSIS   LIFE     AT      EDGEWARE   GOLDSMITH      CONJURING 

GEORGE   COLMAN THE    FANTOCCINI. 

AMONG  the  agreeable  acquaintances  made  by  Goldsmith 
about  this  time  was  a  Mr.  Joseph  Cradock,  a  youug  gentleman 
of  Leicestershire,  living  at  his  ease,  but  disposed  to  ''make 
himself  uneasy,"  by  meddling  with  literature  and  the  theatre; 
in  fact,  he  had  a  passion  for  plays  and  players,  and  had  come 
up  to  town  with  a  modified  translation  of  Voltaire's  tragedy  of 
Zobeide,  in  a  view  to  get  it  acted.  There  was  no  great  difficulty 
in  the  case,  as  he  was  a  man  of  fortune,  had  letters  of  introduc- 
tion to  pei-sons  of  note,  and  was  altogether  in  a  different  position 
from  the  indigent  man  of  genius  whom  managers  might  harass 
with  impunity.  Goldsmith  met  him  at  the  house  of  Yates,  the 
actor,  and  finding  that  he  was  a  friend  of  Lord  Clare,  soon  be- 
came sociable  with  him.  Mutual  tastes  quickened  the  intimacy, 
especially  as  they  found  means  of  serving  each  other.  Gold- 
smith wrote  an  epilogue  for  the  tragedy  of  Zobeide;  and  Cra- 
dock, who  was  an  amateur  musician,  arranged  the  music  for  the 
Threuodia  Augustalis,  a  lament  on  the  death  of  the  Princess 
Dowager  of  Wales,  the  political  mistress  and  patron  of  Lord 
Clare,  which  Goldsmith  had  thrown  off  hastily  to  please  that 
nobleman.  The  tragedy  was  played  with  some  success  at  Covent 
Garden ;  the  Lament  was  recited  and  sung  at  Mrs.  Cornelys' 
rooms  —  a  very  fashionable  resort  in  Soho  Square,  got  up  by  a 
woman  of  enterprise  of  that  name.  It  was  in  whimsical  parody 
of  those  gay  and  somewhat  promiscuous  assemblages  that  Gold- 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  l8f 

smith  used  to  call  the  motley  evening  parties  at  his  lodgings 
"little  Cornelys." 

The  Threnodia  Augustalis  was  not  publicly  known  to  be  by 
Goldsmith  until  several  years  after  his  death. 

Cradock  was  one  of  the  few  polite  intimates  who  felt  more 
disposed  to  sympathize  with  the  generous  qualities  of  the  poet 
than  to  sport  with  his  eccentricities.  He  sought  his  society 
whenever  he  came  to  town,  and  occasionally  had  him  to  his  seat 
hi  the  country.  Goldsmith  appreciated  his  sympathy,  and  un- 
burthened  himself  to  him  without  reserve.  Seeing  the  lettered 
ease  in  which  this  amateur  author  was  enabled  to  live,  and  the 
time  he  could  bestow  on  the  elaboration  of  a  manuscript,  "  Ah  ! 
Mr.  Cradock,"  cried  he,  "  think  of  me  that  must  write  a  volume 
every  month  !  "  He  complained  to  him  of  the  attempts  made 
by  inferior  writei's,  and  by  others  who  could  scarcely  come  under 
that  denomiuation,  not  only  to  abuse  and  depreciate  his  writings, 
but  to  render  him  ridiculous  as  a  man ;  perverting  every  harm- 
less sentiment  and  action  into  charges  of  absurdity,  malice,  or 
folly.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart,  "  I  am  as  a 
lion  baited  by  curs !  " 

Another  acquaintance  which  he  made  about  this  time,  was  a 
young  countryman  of  the  name  of  McDonnell,  whom  he  met  in 
a  state  of  destitution,  and,  of  course,  befriended.  The  following 
grateful  recollections  of  his  kindness  and  his  merits  were  fur- 
nished by  that  person  in  after  years  : 

"  It  was  in  the  year  1772,"  writes  he,  "  that  the  death  of  my 
elder  brother  —  when  in  London,  on  my  way  to  Ireland  —  left 
me  in  a  most  forlorn  situation ;  I  was  then  about  eighteen ;  I 
possessed  neither  friends  nor  money,  nor  the  means  of  getting 
to  Ireland,  of  which  or  of  England  I  knew  scarcely  any  thing, 
from  having  so  long  resided  in  France.  In  this  situation  I  had 
strolled  about  for  two  or  three  days,  considering  what  to  do, 
but  unable  to  come  to  an}r  determination,  when  Providence 
directed  me  to  the  Temple  Gardens.  I  threw  myself  on  a  seat, 
and,  willing  to  forget  my  miseries  for  a  moment,  drew  out  a 
book  ;  that  book  was  a  volume  of  Boileau.  I  had  not  been  there 
long  when  a  gentleman,  strolling  about,  passed  near  me,  and 
observing,  perhaps,  something  Irish  or  foreign  in  my  garb  or 
countenance,  addressed  me :  '  Sir,  you  seem  studious ;  I  hope 
you  find  this  a  favorable  place  to  pursue  it. '  '  Not  very  studi- 
ous, sir  ;  I  fear  it  is  the  want  of  society  that  brings  me  hither ; 
I  am  solitary  and  unknown  in  this  metropolis  ;  '  and  a  passage 
from  Cicero  —  Oratio  pro  Archia  —  occurring  to  me,  I  quoted  it : 
'Haec  studia  pernoctant  nobiscum,  peregrinantur,  rusticantur  ' 


l£8  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

4  You  are  a  scholar,  too,  sir,  I  perceive.'  '  A  piece  of  one,  sir ; 
but  I  ought  still  to  have  been  in  the  college  where  I  had  the 
good  fortune  to  pick  up  the  little  I  know.'  A  good  deal  of  con- 
versation ensued ;  I  told  him  part  of  my  history,  and  he,  in 
return,  gave  his  address  in  the  Temple,  desiring  me  to  call  soon, 
from  which,  to  my  infinite  surprise  and  gratification,  I  found 
that  the  person  who  thus  seemed  to  take  an  interest  in  my  fate 
was  my  countryman,  and  a  distinguished  ornament  of  letters. 

"  I  did  not  fail  to  keep  the  appointment,  and  was  received  in 
the  kindest  manner.  He  told  me,  smilingly,  that  he  was  not 
rich  ;  that  he  could  do  little  for  me  in  direct  pecuniary  aid,  but 
would  endeavor  to  put  me  in  the  way  of  doing  something  for 
myself ;  observing,  that  he  could  at  least  furnish  me  with  ad- 
vice not  wholly  useless  to  a  young  man  placed  in  the  heart  of  a 
great  metropolis.  'In  London,'  he  continued,  'nothing  is  to 
be  got  for  nothing ;  you  must  work ;  and  no  man  who  chooses 
to  be  industrious  need  be  under  obligations  to  another,  for  here 
labor  of  every  kind  commands  its  reward.  If  you  think  proper 
to  assist  me  occasionally  as  amanuensis,  I  shall  be  obliged,  and 
you  will  be  placed  under  no  obligation,  until  something  more 
permanent  can  be  secured  for  you.'  This  employment,  which  I 
pursued  for  some  time,  was  to  translate  passages  from  Buffon, 
which  was  abridged  or  altered,  according  to  circumstances,  for 
his  Natural  History." 

Goldsmith's  literary  tasks  were  fast  getting  ahead  of  him, 
and  he  began  now  to  "  toil  after  them  in  vain." 

Five  volumes  of  the  Natural  History  here  spoken  of  had  long 
since  been  paid  for  by  Mr.  Griffin,  yet  most  of  them  were  still 
to  be  written.  His  young  amanuensis  bears  testimony  to  his 
embarrassments  and  perplexities,  but  to  the  degree  of  equanimity 
with  which  he  bore  them  : 

"It  has  been  said,"  observes  he,  "that  he  was  irritable. 
Such  may  have  been  the  case  at  times  ;  nay,  I  believe  it  was  so  ; 
for  what  with  the  continual  pursuit  of  authors,  printers,  and 
booksellers,  and  occasional  pecuniary  embarrassments,  few  could 
have  avoided  exhibiting  similar  marks  of  impatience.  But  it 
was  never  so  toward  me.  I  saw  him  only  in  his  bland  and  kind 
moods,  with  a  flow,  perhaps  an  overflow,  of  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  for  all  who  were  in  any  manner  dependent  upon  him. 
I  looked  upon  him  with  awe  and  veneration,  and  he  upon  me  as 
a  kind  parent  upon  a  child. 

"  His  manner  and  address  exhibited  much  frankness  and 
cordiality,  particularly  to  those  with  whom  he  possessed  any 
degree  of  intimacy.  His  good-nature  was  equally  apparent. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  189 

You  could  not  dislike  the  man,  although  several  of  his  follies  and 
foibles  you  might  be  tempted  to  condemn.  He  was  generous 
and  inconsiderate  ;  money  with  him  had  little  value." 

To  escape  from  many  of  the  tormentors  just  alluded  to,  and 
to  devote  himself  without  interruption  to  his  task,  Goldsmith 
took  lodgings  for  the  summer  at  a  farm-house  near  the  six-mile 
stone  on  the  Edgeware  road,  and  carried  down  his  books  in  two 
return  post-chaises.  He  used,  to  say  he  believed  the  farmer's 
family  thought  him  an  odd  character,  similar  to  that  in  which 
the  Spectator  appeared  to  his  landlady  and  her  children :  he  was 
The  Gentleman.  Boswell  tells  us  that  he  went  to  visit  him  at 
the  place  in  company  with  Mickle,  translator  of  the  Lusiad. 
Goldsmith  was  not  at  home.  Having  a  curiosity  to  see  his 
apartment,  however,  they  went  in,  and  found  curious  scraps  of 
descriptions  of  animals  scrawled  upon  the  wall  with  a  black  lead- 
pencil. 

The  farm-house  in  question  is  still  in  existence,  though  much 
altered.  It  stands  upon  a  gentle  eminence  in  Hyde  Lane,  com- 
manding a  pleasant  prospect  toward  Hendon.  The  room  is  still 
pointed  out  in  which  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  was  written  ;  a  con- 
venient and  airy  apartment,  up  one  flight  of  stairs. 

Some  matter  of  fact  traditions  concerning  the  author  were  fur- 
nished, a  few  years  since,  by  a  son  of  the  farmer,  who  was  six- 
teen years  of  age  at  the  time  Goldsmith  resided  with  his  father. 
Though  he  had  engaged  to  board  with  the  family,  his  meals  were 
generally  sent  to  him  in  his  room,  in  which  he  passed  the  most 
of  his  time,  negligently  dressed,  with  his  shirt-collar  open,  busily 
engaged  in  writing.  Sometimes,  probably  when  in  moods  of 
composition,  he  would  wander  into  the  kitchen,  without  noticing 
any  one,  stand  musing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  then  hurry 
off  again  to  his  room,  no  doubt  to  commit  to  paper  some  thought 
which  had  struck  him. 

Sometimes  he  strolled  about  the  fields,  or  was  to  be  seen 
loitering  and  reading  and  musing  under  the  hedges.  He  was 
subject  to  fits  of  wakefulness  and  read  much  in  bed  ;  if  not  dis- 
posed to  read,  he  still  kept  the  candle  burning ;  if  he  wished  to 
extinguish  it,  and  it  was  out  of  his  reach,  he  flung  his  slipper 
at  it,  which  would  be  found  in  the  morning  near  the  overturned 
candlestick  and  daubed  with  grease.  He  was  noted  here,  as 
everywhere  else,  for  his  charitable  feelings.  No  beggar  applied 
to  him  in  vain,  and  he  evinced  on  all  occasions  great  commis- 
eration for  the  poor. 

He  had  the  use  of  the  parlor  to  receive  and  entertain  com- 
pany, and  was  visited  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Hugh  Boyd, 


190  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

the  reputed  author  of  "  Junius,"  Sir  "William  Chambers,  and 
other  distinguished  characters.  He  gave,  occasionally,  though 
rarely,  a  dinner  party ;  and  on  one  occasion,  when  his  guests 
were  detained  by  a  thunder  shower,  he  got  up  a  dance,  and  car- 
ried the  merriment  late  into  the  night. 

As  usual,  he  was  the  promoter  of  hilarity  among  the  young, 
and  at  one  time  took  the  children  of  the  house  to  see  a  com- 
pany of  strolling  players  at  Hendon.  The  greatest  amusement 
to  the  party,  however,  was  derived  from  his  own  jokes  on  the 
road  and  his  comments  on  the  performance,  which  produced 
infinite  laughter  among  his  youthful  companions. 

Near  to  his  rural  retreat  at  Edgeware,  a  Mr.  Seguin,  an  Irish 
merchant  of  literary  tastes,  had  country  quarters  for  his  family, 
where  Goldsmith  was  always  welcome. 

In  this  family  he  would  indulge  in  playful  and  even  grotesque 
humor,  and  was  ready  for  any  thing —  conversation,  music,  or  a 
game  of  romps.  He  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing,  and 
would  walk  a  minuet  with  Mrs.  Seguin,  to  the  infinite  amuse- 
ment of  herself  and  the  children,  whose  shouts  of  laughter  he 
bore  with  perfect  good-humor.  He  would  sing  Irish  songs,  and 
the  Scotch  ballad  of  Johnny  Armstrong.  He  took  the  lead  in 
the  children's  sports  of  blind-man's-buff,  hunt  the  slipper,  etc., 
or  in  their  games  at  cards,  and  was  the  most  noisy  of  the  party, 
affecting  to  cheat  and  to  be  excessively  eager  to  win ;  while 
with  children  of  smaller  size  he  would  turn  the  hind  part  of  his 
wig  before,  and  play  all  kinds  of  tricks  to  amuse  them. 

One  word  as  to  his  musical  skill  and  his  performance  on  the 
flute,  which  comes  up  so  invariably  in  all  his  fireside  revels. 
He  really  knew  nothing  of  music  scientifically  ;  he  had  a  good 
ear,  and  may  have  played  sweetly ;  but  we  are  told  he  could 
not  read  a  note  of  music.  Roubillac,  the  statuary,  once  played 
a  trick  upon  him  in  this  respect.  He  pretended  to  score  down 
an  air  as  the  poet  played  it,  but  put  down  crotchets  and  semi- 
breves  at  random.  When  he  had  finished,  Goldsmith  cast  his 
eyes  over  it  and  pronounced  it  correct !  It  is  possible  that  his 
execution  in  music  was  like  his  style  in  writing ;  in  sweetness 
and  melody  he  may  have  snatched  a  grace  beyond  the  reach  of 
art! 

He  was  at  all  times  a  capital  companion  for  children,  and 
knew  how  to  fall  in  with  their  humors.  "I  little  thought," 
said  Miss  Hawkins,  the  woman  grown,  "  what  I  should  have  to 
boast,  when  Goldsmith  taught  me  to  play  Jack  and  Jill  by  two 
bits  of  paper  on  his  fingers."  He  entertained  Mrs.  Garrick, 
we  are  told,  with  a  whole  budget  of  stories  and  songs  ;  delivered 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  191 

the  "Chimney  Sweep"  with  exquisite  taste  as  a  solo:  and 
performed  a  duet  with  Garrick  of  "  Old  Rose  and  Bufti  the 
Bellows." 

"  I  was  only  five  years  old,"  says  the  late  George  Colman, 
"when  Goldsmith  one  evening,  when  drinking  coffee  with  my 
father,  took  me  on  his  knee  and  began  to  play  with  me,  which 
amiable  act  I  returned  with  a  very  smart  slap  in  the  face ;  it 
must  have  been  a  tingler,  for  I  left  the  marks  of  my  little 
spiteful  paw  upon  his  cheek.  This  infantile  outrage  was  fol- 
lowed by  summary  justice,  and  I  was  locked  up  by  my  father 
in  an  adjoining  room,  to  undergo  solitary  imprisonment  in  the 
dark.  Here  I  began  to  howl  and  scream  most  abominably. 
At  length  a  friend  appeared  to  extricate  me  from  jeopardy  ;  it 
was  the  good-natured  doctor  himself,  with  a  lighted  candle  in 
his  hand,  and  a  smile  upon  his  countenance,  which  was  still 
partially  red  from  the  effects  of  my  petulance.  I  sulked  and 
sobbed,  and  he  fondled  and  soothed  until  I  began  to  brighten. 
He  seized  the  propitious  moment,  placed  three  hats  upon  the 
carpet,  and  a  shilling  under  each ;  the  shillings,  he  told  me, 
were  England,  France,  and  Spain.  '  Hey,  presto,  cockolorum  ! ' 
cried  the  doctor,  and  lo  !  on  uncovering  the  shillings,  they  were 
all  found  congregated  under  one.  I  was  no  politician  at  the 
time,  and  therefore  might  not  have  wondered  at  the  sudden 
revolution  which  brought  England,  France,  and  Spain  all  under 
one  crown ;  but,  as  I  was  also  no  conjurer,  it  amazed  me  be- 
yond measure.  From  that  time,  whenever  the  doctor  came  to 
visit  my  father, 

1 1  pluck'd  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's  smile;  • 

a  game  of  romps  constantly  ensued,  and  we  were  always  cordial 
friends  and  merry  playfellows." 

Although  Goldsmith  made  the  Edgeware  farmhouse  his  head- 
quarters for  the  summer,  he  would  absent  himself  for  weeks  at 
a  time  on  visits  to  Mr.  Cradock,  Lord  Clare,  and  Mr.  Langton, 
at  their  country-seats.  He  would  often  visit  town,  also,  to  dine 
and  partake  of  the  public  amusements.  On  one  occasion  he 
accompanied  Edmund  Burke  to  witness  a  performance  of  the 
Italian  Fantoccini  or  Puppets,  in  Panton  Street ;  an  exhibition 
which  had  hit  the  caprice  of  the  town,  and  was  in  great  vogue. 
The  puppets  were  set  in  motion  by  wires,  so  well  concealed  as 
to  be  with  difficulty  detected.  Boswell,  with  his  usual  obtuse- 
ness  with  respect  to  Goldsmith,  accuses  him  of  being  jealous 
of  the  puppets!  "  When  Burke,"  said  he,  "praised  the  dex- 


192  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

terity  with  which  one  of  them  tossed  a  pike,  '  Pshaw,'  said 
Goldsmith  with  some  warmth,  'I  can  do  it  better  aiyselV  " 
"  The  same  evening,"  adds  Boswell,  "  when  supping  at  Bui  fee's 
lodgings,  he  broke  his  shin  by  attempting  to  exhibit  to  the 
company  how  much  better  he  could  jump  over  a  stick  than  the 
puppets." 

Goldsmith  jealous  of  puppets  !  This  even  passes  in  absurd- 
ity Boswell's  charge  upon  him  of  being  jealous  of  the  beauty 
of  the  two  Miss  Hornecks. 

The  Panton  Street  puppets  were  destined  to  be  a  source  of 
further  amusement  to  the  town,  and  of  annoyance  to  the  little 
autocrat  of  the  stage.  Foote,  the  Aristophanes  of  the  English 
drama,  who  was  always  on  the  alert  to  turn  every  subject 
of  popular  excitement  to  account,  seeing  the  success  of  the 
Fantoccini,  gave  out  that  he  should  produce  a  Primitive  Pup- 
pet-show at  the  Haymarket,  to  be  entitled  The  Handsome 
Chambermaid,  or  Piety  in  Pattens :  intended  to  burlesque  the 
sentimental  comedy  which  Garrick  still  maintained  at  Drury  Lane. 
The  idea  of  a  play  to  be  performed  in  a  regular  theatre  by 
puppets  excited  the  curiosity  and  talk  of  the  town.  "  Will 
your  puppets  be  as  large  as  life,  Mr.  Foote?  "  demanded  a  lady 
of  rank.  "  Oh,  no,  my  lady  ;  "  replied  Foote,  "  not  much  larger 
than  Garrick." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

BROKEN   HEALTH DISSIPATION   AND   DEBTS THE   IRISH    WIDOW 

PRACTICAL    JOKES  SCRUB  A     MISQUOTED    PUN  —  MALA- 

GRIDA  GOLDSMITH     PROVED     TO     BE     A     FOOL  DISTRESSED 

BALLAD    SINGERS THE    POET   AT   RANELAGH. 

GOLDSMITH  returned  to  town  in  the  autumn  (1772),  with  his 
health  much  disordered.  His  close  fits  of  sedentary  applica- 
tion, during  which  he  in  a  manner  tied  himself  to  the  mast, 
had  laid  the  seeds  of  a  lurking  malady  in  his  system,  and  pro- 
duced a  severe  illness  in  the  course  of  the  summer.  Town  life 
was  not  favorable  to  the  health  either  of  body  or  mind.  He 
could  not  resist  the  siren  voice  of  temptation,  which,  now  that 
he  had  become  a  notoriety,  assailed  him  on  every  side.  Ac- 
cordingly we  find  him  launching  away  in  a  career  of  social 
dissipation ;  dining  and  supping  out ;  at  clubs,  at  routs,  at 
theatres;  he  is  a  guest  with  Johnson  at  the  Thrales',  and  an 
object  of  Mrs.  Thrale's  lively  sallies ;  he  is  a  lion  at  Mrs.  Vesey'a 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  193 

and  Mrs.  Montagu's,  where  some  of  the  high-bred  blue-stock- 
ings pronounce  him  a  "  wild  genius,"  and  others,  peradventure, 
a  "wild  Irishman."  In  the  mean  time  his  pecuniary  difficul- 
ties are  increasing  upon  him,  conflicting  with  his  proneness  to 
pleasure  and  expense,  and  contributing  by  the  harassment  of 
his  mind  to  the  wear  and  tear  of  his  constitution.  His  "  Ani- 
mated Nature,"  though  not  finished,  has  been  entirely  paid  for, 
and  the  money  spent.  The  money  advanced  by  Garrick  on 
Newbery's  note  still  hangs  over  him  as  a  debt.  The  tale  on 
which  Newbery  had  loaned  from  two  to  three  hundred  pounds 
previous  to  the  excursion  to  Barton  has  proved  a  failure.  The 
bookseller  is  urgent  for  the  settlement  of  his  complicated  ac- 
count ;  the  perplexed  author  has  nothing  to  offer  him  in  liqui- 
dation but  the  copyright  of  the  comedy  which  he  has  in  his 
portfolio;  "Though  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Frank,"  said  he, 
"there  are  great  doubts  of  its  success."  The  offer  was  ac- 
cepted, and,  like  bargains  wrung  from  Goldsmith  in  times  of 
emergency,  turned  out  a  golden  speculation  to  the  bookseller. 

In  this  way  Goldsmith  went  on  "  overrunning  the  constable," 
as  he  termed  it ;  spending  every  thing  in  advance ;  working 
with  an  overtasked  head  and  weary  heart  to  pay  for  past  pleas- 
ures and  past  extravagance,  and  at  the  same  time  incurring  new 
debts,  to  perpetuate  his  struggles  and  darken  his  future  pros- 
pects. While  the  excitement  of  society  and  the  excitement  o'J 
composition  conspire  to  keep  up  a  feverishness  of  the  system, 
he  has  incurred  an  unfortunate  habit  of  quacking  himself  with 
James's  powders,  a  fashionable  panacea  of  the  day. 

A  farce,  produced  this  year  by  Garrick,  and  entitled  The 
Irish  Widow,  perpetuates  the  memory  of  practical  jokes  played 
off  a  year  or  two  previously  upon  the  alleged  vanity  of  poor, 
simple-hearted  Goldsmith.  He  was  one  evening  at  the  house 
of  his  friend  Burke,  when  he  was  beset  by  a  tenth  muse,  an 
Irish  widow  and  authoress,  just  arrived  from  Ireland,  full  of 
brogue  and  blunders,  and  poetic  fire  and  rantipole  gentility. 
She  was  soliciting  subscriptions  for  her  poems ;  and  assailed 
Goldsmith  for  Ms  patronage ;  the  great  Goldsmith  —  her 
countryman,  and  of  course  her  friend.  She  overpowered  him 
with  eulogiums  on  his  own  poems,  and  then  read  some  of  her 
own,  with  vehemence  of  tone  and  gesture,  appealing  continu- 
ally to  the  great  Goldsmith  to  know  how  he  relished  them. 

Poor  Goldsmith  did  all  that  a  kind-hearted  and  gallant  gen- 
tleman could  do  in  such  a  case  ;  he  praised  her  poems  as  far  as 
the  stomach  of  his  sense  would  permit :  perhaps  a  little  fur- 
ther ;  he  offered  her  his  subscription,  and  it  was  not  until  she 


194  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

had  retired  with  many  parting  compliments  to  the  great  Gold- 
smith, that  he  pronounced  the  poetry  which  had  been  inflicted 
on  him  execrable.  The  whole  scene  had  been  a  hoax  got  up 
by  Burke  for  the  amusement  of  his  company,  and  the  Irish 
widow,  so  admirably  performed,  had  been  personated  by  a 
Mrs.  Balfour,  a  lady  of  his  connection,  of  great  sprightliness 
and  talent. 

We  see  nothing  in  the  story  to  establish  the  alleged  vanity 
of  Goldsmith,  but  we  think  it  tells  rather  to  the  disadvantage 
of  Burke ;  being  unwarrantable  under  their  relations  of  friend- 
ship, and  a  species  of  waggery  quite  beneath  his  genius. 

Croker,  in  his  notes  to  Boswell,  gives  another  of  these  prac- 
tical jokes  perpetrated  by  Burke  at  the  expense  of  Goldsmith's 
credulity.  It  was  related  to  Croker  by  Colonel  O'Moore,  of 
Cloghan  Castle,  in  Ireland,  who  was  a  party  concerned.  The 
colonel  and  Burke,  walking  one  day  through  Leicester  Square 
on  their  way  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 's,  with  whom  they  were 
to  dine,  observed  Goldsmith,  who  was  likewise  to  be  a  guest, 
standing  and  regarding  a  crowd  which  was  staring  and  shout- 
ing at  some  foreign  ladies  in  the  window  of  a  hotel.  "  Observe 
Goldsmith,"  said  Burke  to  O'Moore,  "and  mark  what  passes 
between  us  at  Sir  Joshua's."  They  passed  on  and  reached 
there  before  him.  Burke  received  Goldsmith  with  affected 
reserve  and  coldness ;  being  pressed  to  explain  the  reason, 
"Really,"  said  he,  "I  am  ashamed  to  keep  company  with  a 
person  who  could  act  as  you  have  just  done  in  the  Square." 
Goldsmith  protested  he  was  ignorant  of  what  was  meant. 
"  Why,"  said  Burke,  "did  you  not  exclaim  as  you  were  look- 
ing up  at  those  women,  what  stupid  beasts  the  crowd  must  be 
for  staring  with  such  admiration  at  those  painted  Jezebels,  while 
a  man  of  your  talents  passed  by  unnoticed?  "  "  Surely,  surely, 
my  dear  friend,"  cried  Goldsmith,  with  alarm,  "surely  I  did 
not  say  so?  "  "  Nay,"  replied  Burke,  "if  you  had  not  said  so, 
how  should  I  have  known  it?"  "That's  true,"  answered 
Goldsmith  ;  "  I  am  very  sorry  —  it  was  very  foolish  :  I  do  recol- 
lect that  something  of  the  kind  passed  through  my  mind,  but  I 
did  not  think  I  had  uttered  it." 

It  is  proper  to  observe  that  these  jokes  were  played  off  by 
Burke  before  he  had  attained  the  full  eminence  of  his  social 
position,  and  that  fre  may  have  felt  privileged  to  take  liberties 
with  Goldsmith  as  his  countryman  and  college  associate.  It  is 
evident,  however,  that  the  peculiarities  of  the  latter,  and  his 
guileless  simplicity,  made  him  a  butt  for  the  broad  waggery  of 
some  of  his  associates ;  while  others  more  polished,  though 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  195 

equally  perfidious,  were  on  the  watch  to  give  currency  to  his 
bulls  and  blunders. 

The  Stratford  jubilee,  in  honor  of  Shakspeare,  where  Bos- 
well  had  made  a  fool  of  himself,  was  still  in  every  one's  mind. 
It  was  sportively  suggested  that  a  fete  should  be  held  at  Lich- 
field  in  honor  of  Johnson  and  Garrick,  and  that  the  Beaux' 
Stratagem  should  be  played  by  the  members  of  the  Literary 
Club.  "Then,"  exclaimed  Goldsmith,  "I  shall  certainly  play 
Scrub.  I  should  like  of  all  things  to  try  my  hand  at  that  char- 
acter." The  unwary  speech,  which  any  one  else  might  have 
iiiade  without  comment,  has  been  thought  worthy  of  record  as 
whimsically  characteristic.  Beauclerc  was  extremely  apt  to 
circulate  anecdotes  at  his  expense,  founded  perhaps  on  some 
trivial  incident,  but  dressed  up  with  the  embellishments  of  his 
,»arcastic  brain.  One  relates  to  a  venerable  dish  of  pease,  served 
op  at  Sir  Joshua's  table,  which  should  have  been  green,  but 
were  any  other  color.  A  wag  suggested  to  Goldsmith,  in  a 
whisper,  that  they  should  be  sent  to  Hammersmith,  as  that 
was  the  way  to  turn-em-green  (Turnham-Greeu).  Goldsmith, 
delighted  with  the  pun,  endeavored  to  repeat  it  at  Burke's 
table,  but  missed  the  point.  "That  is  the  way  to  make  'em 
green,"  said  he.  Nobody  laughed.  He  perceived  he  was  at 
fault.  "  I  mean  that  is  the  road  to  turn  'em  green."  A  dead 
pause  and  a  stare  ;  "  whereupon,"  adds  Beauclerc,  "  he  started 
up  disconcerted  and  abruptly  left  the  table."  This  is  evidently 
one  of  Beauclerc's  caricatures. 

On  another  occasion  the  poet  and  Beauclerc  were  seated  at 
the  theatre  next  to  Lord  Shelburne,  the  minister,  whom  politi- 
cal writers  thought  proper  to  nickname  Malagrida.  "Do  you 
know,"  said  Goldsmith  to  his  lordship  in  the  course  of  conver- 
sation, "that  I  never  could  conceive  why  they  call  you  Mal- 
agrida, for  Malagrida  was  a  very  good  sort  of  man."  This  was 
too  good  a  trip  of  the  tongue  for  Beauclerc  to  let  pass :  he 
serves  it  up  in  his  next  letter  to  Lord  Charlemont,  as  a  speci- 
men of  a  mode  of  turning  a  thought  the  wrong  way,  peculiar 
to  the  poet ;  he  makes  merry  over  it  with  his  witty  and  sarcastic 
compeer,  Horace  Walpole,  who  pronounces  it  "a  picture  of 
Goldsmith's  whole  life."  Dr.  Johnson  alone,  when  he  hears  it 
bandied  about  as  Goldsmith's  last  blunder,  growls  forth  a 
friendly  defence:  "Sir,"  said  he,  "it  was  a  mere  blunder  in 
emphasis.  He  meant  to  say,  I  wonder  they  should  use  Mala- 
grida as  a  term  of  reproach."  Poor  Goldsmith!  On  such 
points  he  was  ever  doomed  to  be  misinterpreted.  Rogers,  the 
poet,  meeting  hi  times  long-  subsequent  with  a  survivor  from 


196  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

those  days,  asked  him  what  Goldsmith  really  was  in  conversa- 
tion. The  old  conventional  character  was  too  deeply  stamped 
in  the  memory  of  the  veteran  to  be  effaced.  "  Sir,"  replied  the 
old  wiseacre,  "  he  was  a  fool.  The  right  word  never  came  to 
him.  If  you  gave  him  back  a  bad  shilling,  he'd  say,  Why  it's 
as  good  a  shilling  as  ever  was  born.  You  know  he  ought  to 
have  said  coined.  Coined,  sir,  never  entered  his  head.  He  was 
a  fool,  sir." 

We  have  so  many  anecdotes  in  which  Goldsmith's  simplicity 
is  played  upon,  that  it  is  quite  a  treat  to  meet  with  one  in  which 
he  is  represented  playing  upon  the  simplicity  of  others,  espe- 
cially when  the  victim  of  his  joke  is  the  "  Great  Cham  "  himself, 
whom  all  others  are  disposed  to  hold  so  much  in  awe.  Gold- 
smith and  Johnson  were  supping  cosily  together  at  a  tavern  in 
Dean  Street,  Soho,  kept  by  Jack  Roberts,  a  singer  at  Drury 
Lane,  and  a  protege  of  Garrick's.  Johnson  delighted  in  these 
gastronomical  tete-a~tetes,  and  was  expatiating  in  high  good 
humor  on  a  dish  of  rumps  and  kidneys,  the  veins  of  his  forehead 
swelling  with  the  ardor  of  mastication.  "  These,"  said  he,  "  are 
pretty  little  things  ;  but  a  man  must  eat  a  great  many  of  them 
before  he  is  filled."  "Ay;  but  how  many  of  them,"  asked 
Goldsmith,  with  affected  simplicity,  "would  reach  to  the 
moon?"  "To  the  moon!  Ah,  sir,  that,  I  fear,  exceeds  your 
calculation."  "  Not  at  all,  sir ;  I  think  I  could  tell."  "  Pray 
then,  sir,  let  us  hear."  "Why,  sir,  one,  if  it  were  long 
enough!"  Johnson  growled  for  a  time  at  finding  himself 
caught  in  such  a  trite  schoolboy  trap.  "  Well,  sir,"  cried  he  at 
length,  "  I  have  deserved  it.  I  should  not  have  provoked  so 
foolish  an  answer  by  so  foolish  a  question." 

Among  the  many  incidents  related  as  illustrative  of  Gold- 
smith's vanity  and  envy  is  one  which  occurred  one  even^g 
when  he  was  in  a  drawing-room  with  a  party  of  ladies,  and  a 
ballad-singer  under  the  window  struck  up  his  favorite  song  of 
"Sally  Salisbury."  "How  miserably  this  woman  sings!" 
exclaimed  he.  "Pray,  Doctor,"  said  the  lady  of  the  house, 
"could  you  do  it  better?"  "  Yes,  madam,  and  the  company 
shall  be  judges."  the  company,  of  course,  prepared  to  be 
entertained  by  an  absurdity ;  but  their  smiles  were  well-nigh 
turned  to  tears,  for  he  acquitted  himself  with  a  skill  and 
pathos  that  drew  universal  applause.  He  had,  in  fact,  a  deli- 
cate ear  for  music,  which  had  been  jarred  by  the  false  notes  of 
the  ballad-singer ;  and  there  were  certain  pathetic  ballads, 
associated  with  recollections  of  his  childhood,  which  were  sure 
to  touch  the  springs  of  his  heart.  We  have  another  story  of 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  197 

him,  connected  with  ballad-singing,  which  is  still  more  charac- 
teristic. He  was  one  evening  at  the  house  of  Sir  William 
Chambers,  in  Berners  Street,  seated  at  a  whist-table  with  Sir 
William,  Lady  Chambers,  and  Baretti,  when  all  at  once  he 
threw  down  his  cards,  hurried  out  of  the  room  and  into  the 
street.  He  returned  in  an  instant,  resumed  his  seat,  and  the 
game  went  on.  Sir  William,  after  a  little  hesitation,  ventured 
to  ask  the  cause  of  his  retreat,  fearing  he  had  been  overcome 
by  the  heat  of  the  room.  "Not  at  all,"  replied  Goldsmith; 
"  but  in  truth  I  could  not  bear  to  hear  that  unfortunate  woman 
in  the  street,  half  singing,  half  sobbing,  for  such  tones  could 
only  arise  from  the  extremity  of  distress ;  her  voice  grated 
painfully  on  my  ear  and  jarred  my  frame,  so  that  I  could  not 
rest  until  I  had  sent  her  away."  It  was  in  fact  a  poor  ballad- 
singer,  whose  cracked  voice  had  been  heard  by  others  of  the 
party,  but  without  having  the  same  effect  on  their  sensibilities. 
It  was  the  reality  of  his  fictitious  scene  in  the  story  of  the 
"  Man  in  Black  ;  "  wherein  he  describes  a  woman  in  rags  with 
one  child  in  her  arms  and  another  on  her  back,  attempting  to 
sing  ballads,  but  with  such  a  mournful  voice  that  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  determine  whether  she  was  singing  or  crying.  "A 
wretch,"  he  adds,  "who,  in  the  deepest  distress,  still  aimed  at 
good  humor,  was  an  object  my  friend  was  by  no  means  capable 
of  withstanding."  The  Man  in  Black  gave  the  poor  woman  all 
that  he  had  —  a  bundle  of  matches.  Goldsmith,  it  is  probable, 
sent  his  ballad-singer  away  rejoicing  with  all  the  money  in  his 
pocket. 

Ranelagh  was  at  that  time  greatly  in  vogue  as  a  place  of 
public  entertainment.  It  was  situated  near  Chelsea ;  the  prin- 
cipal room  was  a  rotunda  of  great  dimensions,  with  an  orches- 
tra in  the  centre,  and  tiers  of  boxes  all  round.  It  was  a  place 
to  which  Johnson  resorted  occasionally.  "I  am  a  great  friend 
to  public  amusements,"  said  he,  "  for  they  keep  people  from 
vice." l  Goldsmith  was  equally  a  friend  to  them,  though 
perhaps  not  altogether  on  such  moral  grounds.  He  was  particu- 
larly fond  of  masquerades,  which  were  then  exceedingly  popu- 
lar, and  got  up  at  Ranelagh  with  great  expense  and  magnifi- 
cence. Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who  had  likewise  a  taste  for  such 
amusements,  was  sometimes  his  companion,  at  other  times  he 

1  "Alas,  sir!"  said  Johnson,  speaking,  when  in  another  mood,  of  grand  houses; 
fine  gardens,  and  splendid  places  of  public  amusement;  "alas,  sir!  these  are  only 
struggles  for  happiness.  When  I  first  entered  Ranelagh  it  gave  an  expansion  and  gay 
sensation  to  my  mind,  such  as  I  never  experienced  anywhere  else.  But,  as  Xerxes  wept 
when  he  viewed  his  immense  army,  and  considered  that  not  one  of  that  great  multitude 
would  be  alive  a  hundred  years  afterward,  so  it  went  to  my  heart  to  consider  that  there 
was  not  one  in  all  that  brilliant  circle  that  wad  not  afraid  to  go  home  and  think." 


198  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 

went  alone  ;  his  peculiarities  of  person  and  manner  would  soon 
betray  him,  whatever  might  be  his  disguise,  and  he  would  be 
singled  out  by  wags,  acquainted  with  his  foibles,  and  more  suc- 
cessful than  himself  in  maintaining  their  incognito,  as  a  capital 
subject  to  be  played  upon.  Some,  pretending  not  to  know  him, 
would  decry  his  writings,  and  praise  those  of  his  contempora- 
ries ;  others  would  laud  his  verses  to  the  skies,  but  purposely 
misquote  and  burlesque  them ;  others  would  annoy  him  with 
parodies ;  while  one  young  lady,  whom  he  was  teasing,  as  he 
supposed,  with  great  success  and  infinite  humor,  silenced  his 
rather  boisterous  laughter  by  quoting  his  own  line  about  "  the 
loud  laugh  that  speaks  the  vacant  mind."  On  one  occasion  he 
was  absolutely  driven  out  of  the  house  by  the  persevering  jokes 
of  a  wag,  whose  complete  disguise  gave  him  no  means  of  retal- 
iation. 

His  name  appearing  in  the  newspapers  among  the  distin- 
guished persons  present  at  one  of  these  amusements,  his  old 
enemy,  Kenrick,  immediately  addressed  to  him  a  copy  of 
anonymous  verses,  to  the  following  purport. 

To  Dr.  Goldsmith ;  on  seeing  his  name  in  the  list  of  mum- 
mers at  the  late  masquerade : 

"  How  widely  different,  Goldsmith,  are  the  ways 
Of  Doctors  now,  and  those  of  ancient  days ! 
Theirs  taught  the  truth  in  academic  shades, 
Ours  in  lewd  hops  and  midnight  masquerades. 
80  changed  the  times!  say,  philosophic  sage, 
Whose  genius  suits  so  well  this  tasteful  age, 
Is  the  Pantheon,  late  a  sink  obscene, 
Become  the  fountain  of  chaste  Hippocrene? 
Or  do  thy  moral  numbers  quaintly  flow, 
Inspired  by  th'  Aganippe  of  Soho? 
Do  wisdom's  sons  gorge  cates  and  vermicelli, 
Like  beastly  Bickerstaffe  or  bothering  Kelly? 
Or  art  thou  tired  of  th'  undeserved  applause 
Bestowed  on  bards  affecting  Virtue's  cause? 
Is  this  the  good  that  makes  the  humble  vain, 
The  good  philosophy  should  not  disdain? 
If  so,  let  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
A  modern  sage  is  still  much  less  than  man." 

Goldsmith  was  keenly  sensitive  to  attacks  of  the  kind,  and 
meeting  Kenrick  at  the  Chapter  Coffee-house,  called  him  to 
sharp  account  for  taking  such  a  liberty  with  his  name,  and  call- 
ing his  morals  in  question,  merely  on  account  of  his  being  seen 
at  a  place  of  general  resort  and  amusement.  Kenrick  shuffled 
find  sneaked,  protesting  that  he  meant  nothing  derogatory  to  his 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  199 

private  character.  Goldsmith  let  him  know,  however,  that  he 
was  aware  of  his  having  more  than  once  indulged  in  attacks  of 
this  dastard  kind,  and  intimated  that  another  such  outrage  would 
be  followed  by  personal  chastisement. 

Kenrick  having  played  the  craven  in  his  presence,  avenged 
himself  as  soon  as  he  was  gone  by  complaining  of  his  having 
made  a  wanton  attack  upon  him,  and  by  making  coarse  com- 
ments upon  his  writings,  conversation,  and  person. 

The  scurrilous  satire  of  Kenrick,  however  unmerited,  may 
have  checked  Goldsmith's  taste  for  masquerades.  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  calling  on  the  poet  one  morning,  found  him  walking 
about  his  room  in  somewhat  of  a  reverie,  kicking  a  bundle  of 
clothes  before  him  like  a  foot- ball.  It  proved  to  be  an  expen- 
sive masquerade  dress,  which  he  said  he  had  been  fool  enough 
to  purchase,  and  as  there  was  no  other  way  of  getting  the  worth 
of  his  money,  he  was  trying  to  take  it  out  in  exercise. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

INVITATION     TO      CHRISTMAS  — THE     SPRING- VELVET     COAT THE 

HAYMAKING  WIG THE    MISCHANCES    OF   LOO THE    FAIR   CUL- 
PRIT  A   DANCE   WITH   THE   JESSAMY   BRIDE. 

FROM  the  feverish  dissipations  of  town,  Goldsmith  is  sum- 
moned away  to  partake  of  the  genial  dissipations  of  the  coun- 
try. In  the  month  of  December,  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Bunbury 
invites  him  down  to  Barton,  to  pass  the  Christmas  holidays. 
The  letter  is  written  in  the  usual  playful  vein  which  marks  his 
intercourse  with  this  charming  family.  He  is  to  come  in  his 
"  smart  spring- velvet  coat,"  to  bring  a  new  wig  to  dance  with 
the  haymakers  in,  and  above  all,  to  follow  the  advice  of  herself 
and  her  sister  (the  Jessamy  Bride),  in  playing  loo.  This  let- 
ter, which  plays  so  archly,  yet  kindly,  with  some  of  poor  Gold- 
smith's peculiarities,  and  bespeaks  such  real  ladylike  regard 
for  him,  requires  a  word  or  two  of  annotation.  The  spring- 
velvet  suit  alluded  to  appears  to  have  been  a  gallant  adorn- 
ment (somewhat  in  the  style  of  the  famous  bloom-colored  coat) 
in  which  Goldsmith  had  figured  in  the  preceding  month  of 
May  —  the  season  of  blossoms — for,  on  the  21st  of  that  month, 
we  find  the  following  entry  in  the  chronicle  of  Mr.  William 
Filby,  tailor  :  To  your  blue  velvet  suit,  £21 10s.  9d.  Also,  about 
the  same  tune,  a  suit  of  livery  and  a  crimson  collar  for  the 


200  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

serving  man.  Again  we  hold  the  Jessamy  Bride  responsible 
for  this  gorgeous  splendor  of  wardrobe. 

The  new  wig  no  doubt  is  a  bag- wig  and  solitaire,  still  highly 
the  mode,  and  in  which  Goldsmith  is  represented  as  figuring 
when  in  full  dress,  equipped  with  his  sword. 

As  to  the  dancing  with  the  haymakers,  we  presume  it  al- 
ludes to  some  gambol  of  the  poet,  in  the  course  of  his  former 
visit  to  Barton  ;  when  he  ranged  the  fields  and  lawns  a  char- 
tered libertine,  and  tumbled  into  the  fish-ponds. 

As  to  the  suggestions  about  loo,  they  are  in  sportive  allusion 
to  the  doctor's  mode  of  playing  that  game  in  their  merry 
evening  parties ;  affecting  the  desperate  gambler  and  easy 
dupe ;  running  counter  to  all  rule ;  making  extravagant  ven- 
tures ;  reproaching  all  others  with  cowardice  ;  dashing  at  all 
hazards  at  the  pool,  and  getting  himself  completely  loo'd,  to 
the  great  amusement  of  the  company.  The  drift  of  the  fair 
sisters'  advice  was  most  probably  to  tempt  him  on,  and  then 
leave  him  in  the  lurch. 

With  these  comments  we  subjoin  Goldsmith's  reply  to  Mrs. 
Bunbury,  a  fine  piece  of  off-hand,  humorous  writing,  which  has 
but  in  late  years  been  given  to  the  public,  and  which  throws  a 
familiar  light  on  the  social  circle  at  Barton. 

"MADAM:  I  read  your  letter  with  all  that  allowance  which 
critical  candor  could  require,  but  after  all  find  so  much  to 
object  to,  and  so  much  to  raise  my  indignation,  that  I  cannot 
help  giving  it  a  serious  answer.  I  am  not  so  ignorant, 
madam,  as  not  to  see  there  are  many  sarcasms  contained  in  it, 
and  solecisms  also.  (Solecism  is  a  word  that  comes  from  the 
town  of  Soleis  in  Attica,  among  the  Greeks,  built  by  Solon, 
and  applied  as  we  use  the  word  Kidderminster  for  curtains  from 
a  town  also  of  that  name  —  but  this  is  learning  you  have  no 
taste  for ! )  —  I  say,  madam,  there  are  many  sarcasms  in  it, 
and  solecisms  also.  But  not  to  seem  an  ill-natured  critic,  I'll 
take  leave  to  quote  your  own  words,  and  give  you  my  remarks 
upon  them  as  they  occur.  You  begin  as  follows : 

'  I  hope,  my  good  Doctor,  you  soon  will  be  here, 
And  your  spring-velvet  coat  very  smart  will  appear, 
To  open  our  ball  the  first  day  of  the  year.' 

"  Pray,  madam,  where  did  you  ever  find  the  epithet  '  good,' 
applied  to  the  title  of  doctor  ?  Had  you  called  me  '  learned 
doctor,'  or  '  grave  doctor,'  or  '  noble  doctor,  it  might  be 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  201 

allowable,  because  they  belong  to  the  profession.  But,  not  to 
cavil  at  trifles,  you  talk  of  '  my  spring-velvet  coat,'  and  advise 
me  to  wear  it  the  first  day  in  the  year,  that  is,  in  the  middle 
of  winter !  —  a  spring-velvet  coat  in  the  middle  of  winter ! ! ! 
That  would  be  a  solecism  indeed  !  and  yet  to  increase  the  incon- 
sistence,  in  another  part  of  your  letter  you  call  me  a  beau.  Now, 
on  one  side  or  other  you  must  be  wrong.  If  I  am  a  beau,  I 
can  never  think  of  wearing  a  spring-velvet  in  winter ;  and  if  I 
am  not  a  beau,  why  then,  that  explains  itself.  But  let  me  go 
on  to  your  two  next  strange  lines : 

4  And  bring  with  you  a  wig,  that  is  modish  and  gay, 
To  dance  with  the  girls  that  are  makers  of  hay.' 

"  The  absurdity  of  making  hay  at  Christmas  you  yourself 
seem  sensible  of :  you  say  your  sister  will  laugh ;  and  so 
indeed  she  well  may !  The  Latins  have  an  expression  for  a 
contemptuous  kind  of  laughter,  '  naso  contemnere  adunco ; ' 
that  is,  to  laugh  with  a  crooked  nose.  She  may  laugh  at  you 
in  the  manner  of  the  ancients  if  she  thinks  fit.  But  now  I 
come  to  the  most  extraordinary  of  all  extraordinary  proposi- 
tions, which  is,  to  take  your  and  your  sister's  advice  in 
playing  at  loo.  The  presumption  of  the  offer  raises  my  indig- 
nation beyond  the  bounds  of  prose ;  it  inspires  me  at  once 
with  verse  and  resentment.  I  take  advice !  and  from  whom  ? 
You  shall  hear. 

"  First,  let  me  suppose,  what  may  shortly  be  true, 
The  company  set,  and  the  word  to  be  Loo : 
All  smirking,  and  pleasant,  and  big  with  adventure, 
And  ogling  the  stake  which  is  fix'd  in  the  centre. 
Round  and  round  go  the  cards,  while  I  inwardly  damn 
At  never  once  finding  a  visit  from  Pam. 
I  lay  down  my  stake,  apparently  cool, 
While  the  harpies  about  me  all  pocket  the  pool. 
I  fret  in  my  gizzard,  yet,  cautious  and  sly, 
I  wish  all  my  friends  may  be  bolder  than  I : 
Yet  still  they  sit  snug,  not  a  creature  will  aim 
By  losing  their  money  to  venture  at  fame. 
Tis  in  vain  that  at  niggardly  caution  I  scold, 
Tis  in  vain  that  I  flatter  the  brave  and  the  bold : 
All  play  their  own  way,  and  they  think  me  an  ass, . . 
'What  does  Mrs.  Bunbury?  '  .  .  .  'I,  sir?     I  pass.' 
1  Pray  what  does  Miss  Horneck?  take  courage,  come  do,'1* » 
•Who,  I?  let  me  see,  sir,  why  I  must  pass  too.' 
Mr.  Bunbury  frets,  and  I  fret  like  the  devil, 
To  see  them  so  cowardly,  lucky,  and  civil. 
Yet  still  I  sit  snug,  and  continue  to  sigh  on, 
Till,  made  by  my  losses  as  bold  as  a  lion. 


202  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

I  venture  at  all,  while  my  avarice  regards 

The  whole  pool  as  my  own. . . .  *  Come  give  me  five  cards.' 

«  Well  done! '  cry  the  ladies;  «  Ah,  Doctor,  that's  goodl 

The  poofs  very  rich,  ...  ah !  the  Doctor  is  loo'd ! ' 

Thus  foil'd  in  my  courage,  on  all  sides  perplext, 

I  ask  for  advice  from  the  lady  that's  next : 

•Pray,  ma'am,  be  so  good  as  to  give  your  advice; 

Don't  you  think  the  best  way  is  to  venture  for't  twice?* 

4 1  advise,'  cries  the  lady,  '  to  try  it,  I  own.  .  .  . 

4  Ah!  the  Doctor  is  loo'd!    Come,  Doctor,  put  down.' 

Thus,  playing,  and  playing,  I  still  grow  more  eager, 

And  so  bold,  and  so  bold,  I'm  at  last  a  bold  beggar. 

Now,  ladies,  I  ask,  if  law-matters  you're  skill'd  in, 

Whether  crimes  such  as  yours  should  not  come  before  Fielding: 

For  giving  advice  that  is  not  worth  a  straw, 

May  well  be  call'd  picking  of  pockets  in  law ; 

And  picking  of  pockets,  with  which  I  now  charge  ye, 

Is,  by  quinto  Elizabeth,  Death  without  Clergy. 

What  justice,  when  both  to  the  Old  Bailey  brought! 

By  the  gods,  I'll  enjoy  it,  tho'  'tis  but  in  thought! 

Both  are  plac'd  at  the  bar,  with  all  proper  decorum, 

With  bunches  of  fennel,  and  nosegays  before  'em; 

Both  cover  their  faces  with  mobs  and  all  that, 

But  the  judge  bids  them,  angrily,  take  off  their  hat. 

When  uncover'd,  a  buzz  of  inquiry  runs  round, 

1  Pray  what  are  their  crimes?  '  .  .  .  '  They've  been  pilfering  found.' 

•But,  pray,  who  have  they  pilfer'd?  ' .  .  . '  A  doctor,  I  hear.' 

•  What,  yon  solemn-faced,  odd-looking  man  that  stand*  nearf ' 
'  The  same.'  ..."  What  a  pity !  how  does  it  surprise  one, 

Two  handnomer  culprits  I  never  set  eyes  on!' 

Then  their  friends  all  come  round  me  with  cringing  and  leering, 

To  melt  me  to  pity,  and  soften  my  swearing. 

First  Sir  Charles  advances  with  phrases  well-strung, 

'  Consider,  dear  Doctor,  the  girls  are  but  young.' 

'  The  younger  the  worse,'  I  return  him  again, 

'It  shows  that  their  habits  are  all  dyed  in  grain.' 

•  But  then  they're  so  handsome,  one's  bosom  it  grieves.* 
«  What  signifies  handsome,  when  people  are  thieves?4 
•But  where  is  your  justice?  their  cases  are  hard.' 

« What  signifies  justicef    I  want  the  reward. 

ti '  There's  the  parish  of  Edmonton  offers  forty  pounds ; 
there's  the  parish  of  St.  Leonard  Shoreditch  offers  forty 
pounds ;  there's  the  parish  of  Tyburn,  from  the  Hog-in-the- 
pound  to  St.  Giles'  watch-house,  offers  forty  pounds — I  shall 
have  ail  that  if  I  convict  them  ! '  — 

" « But  consider  their  case,  ...  it  may  yet  be  your  own! 
And  see  how  they  kneel !    Is  your  heart  made  of  stone? ' 
This  moves !  ...  so  at  last  I  agree  to  relent, 
For  ten  pounds  in  hand,  and  ten  pounds  to  be  spent. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  203 

**  I  challenge  you  all  to  answer  this  :  I  tell  you,  you  cannot. 
It  cuts  deep.  But  now  for  the  rest  of  the  letter:  and  next  — 
but  I  want  room  —  so  I  believe  I  shall  battle  the  rest  out  at 
Barton  some  day  next  week.  I  don't  value  you  all ! 

"O.  G." 

We  regret  that  we  have  no  record  of  this  Christmas  visit  to 
Barton ;  that  the  poet  had  no  Boswell  to  follow  at  his  heels, 
and  take  note  of  all  his  sayings  and  doings.  We  can  only 
picture  him  in  our  minds,  casting  off  all  care  ;  enacting  the  lord 
of  misrule ;  presiding  at  the  Christmas  revels ;  providing  all 
kinds  of  merriment ;  keeping  the  card-table  in  an  uproar,  and 
finally  opening  the  ball  on  the  first  day  of  the  year  in  his 
spring-velvet  suit,  with  the  Jessamy  Bride  for  a  partner. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

THEATRICAL     DELAYS  —  NEGOTIATIONS    WITH      COLMAN LETTER 

TO    GARRICK CROAKING  OF   THE    MANAGER NAMING   OF   THE 

PLAY  —  SHE     STOOPS    TO    CONQUER — FOOTED    PRIMITIVE     PUP- 
PET-SHOW,   PIETY    ON    PATTENS FIRST     PERFORMANCE    OF   THE 

COMEDY AGITATION     OF     THE      AUTHOR SUCCESS COLMAN 

SQUIBBED    OUT   OF   TOWN. 

THE  gay  life  depicted  in  the  two  last  chapters,  while  it  kept 
Goldsmith  in  a  state  of  continual  excitement,  aggravated  the 
malady  which  was  impairing  his  constitution ;  yet  his  increas- 
ing perplexities  in  money  matters  drove  him  to  the  dissipation 
of  society  as  a  relief  from  solitary  care.  The  delays  of  the 
theatre  added  to  those  perplexities.  He  had  long  since  finished 
his  new  comedy,  yet  the  year  1772  passed  away  without  his 
being  able  to  get  it  on  the  stage.  No  one,  uninitiated  in  the 
interior  of  a  theatre,  that  little  world  of  traps  and  trickery, 
can  have  any  idea  of  the  obstacles  and  perplexities  multiplied 
in  the  way  of  the  most  eminent  and  successful  author  by  the 
mismanagement  of  managers,  the  jealousies  and  intrigues  of 
rival  authors,  and  the  fantastic  and  impertinent  caprices  of 
actors.  A  long  and  baffling  negotiation  was  carried  on  between 
Goldsmith  and  Colman,  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  ;  who 
retained  the  play  in  his  hands  until  the  middle  of  January 
(1773),  without  coming  to  a  decision.  The  theatrical  season 
was  rapidly  passing  away,  and  Goldsmith's  pecuniary  difflcul- 


204  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

ties  were  augmenting  and  pressing  on  him.     We  may  judge  of 
his  anxiety  by  the  following  letter : 

"  To  George  Colman,  Esq. 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  I  entreat  you'll  relieve  me  from  that  state  of 
suspense  in  which  I  have  been  kept  for  a  long  time.  Whatever 
objections  you  have  made  or  shall  make  to  my  play,  I  will  en- 
deavor to  remove  and  not  argue  about  them.  To  bring  in  any 
new  judges  either  of  its  merits  or  faults  I  can  never  submit  to. 
Upon  a  former  occasion,  when  my  other  play  was  before  Mr. 
Garrick,  he  offered  to  bring  me  before  Mr.  Whitehead's  tribu- 
nal, but  I  refused  the  proposal  with  indignation  :  I  hope  I  shall 
not  experience  as  harsh  treatment  from  you  as  from  him.  I 
have,  as  you  know,  a  large  sum  of  money  to  make  up  shortly  ; 
by  accepting  my  play,  I  can  readily  satisfy  my  creditor  that 
way ;  at  any  rate,  I  must  look  about  to  some  certainty  to  be 
prepared.  For  God's  sake  take  the  play,  and  let  us  make  the 
best  of  it,  and  let  me  have  the  same  measure,  at  least,  which 
you  have  given  as  bad  plays  as  mine. 

"  I  am  your  friend  and  servant, 

"OLIVER  GOLDSMITH." 

Colman  returned  the  manuscript  with  the  blank  sides  of  the 
leaves  scored  with  disparaging  comments  and  suggested  alter- 
ations, but  with  the  intimation  that  the  faith  of  the  theatre 
should  be  kept,  and  the  play  acted  notwithstanding.  Gold- 
smith submitted  the  criticisms  to  some  of  his  friends,  who  pro- 
nounced them  trivial,  unfair,  and  contemptible,  and  intimated 
that  Colman,  being  a  dramatic  writer  himself,  might  be  actu- 
ated by  jealousy.  The  play  was  then  sent,  with  Colman's 
comments  written  on  it,  to  Garrick ;  but  he  had  scarce  sent  it 
when  Johnson  interfered,  represented  the  evil  that  might  result 
from  an  apparent  rejection  of  it  by  Covent  Garden,  and  under- 
took to  go  forthwith  to  Colman,  and  have  a  talk  with  him  on 
the  subject.  Goldsmith,  therefore,  penned  the  following  note 
to  Garrick : 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  I  ask  many  pardons  for  the  trouble  I  gave  you 
yesterday.  Upon  more  mature  deliberation,  and  the  advice  of 
a  sensible  friend,  I  began  to  think  it  indelicate  in  me  to  throw 
upon  you  the  odium  of  confirming  Mr.  Colman's  sentence.  I 
therefore  request  you  will  send  my  play  back  by  my  servant ; 
for  having  been  assured  of  having  it  acted  at  the  other  house, 
though  I  confess  yours  in  every  respect  more  to  my  wish,  yet 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  205 

it  would  be  folly  in  me  to  forego  an  advantage  which  lies  in 
my  power  of  appealing  from  Mr.  Colman's  opinion  to  the 
judgment  of  the  town.  I  entreat,  if  not  too  late,  you  will  keep 
this  affair  a  secret  for  some  time. 

"  I  am,  dear  sir,  your  very  humble  servant, 

"OLIVER  GOLDSMITH." 

The  negotiation  of  Johnson  with  the  manager  of  Covent 
Garden  was  effective.  "  Colman,"  he  says,  "  was  prevailed  on 
at  last,  by  much  solicitation,  nay,  a  kind  of  force,"  to  bring 
forward  the  comedy.  Still  the  manager  was  ungenerous ;  or, 
at  least,,  indiscreet  enough  to  express  his  opinion,  that  it  would 
not  reach  a  second  representation.  The  plot,  he  said,  was  bad, 
and  the  interest  not  sustained ;  "  it  dwindled,  and  dwindled, 
and  at  last  went  out  like  the  snuff  of  a  candle."  The  effect  of 
his  croaking  was  soon  apparent  within  the  walls  of  the  theatre. 
Two  of  the  most  popular  actors,  Woodward  and  Gantleman 
Smith,  to  whom  the  parts  of  Tony  Lumpkin  and  Young  Mar- 
low  were  assigned,  refused  to  act  them ;  one  of  them  alleging, 
in  excuse,  the  evil  predictions  of  the  manager.  Goldsmith  was 
advised  to  postpone  the  performance  of  his  play  until  he  could 
get  these  important  parts  well  supplied.  "No,"  said  he,  "I 
would  sooner  that  my  play  were  damned  by  bad  players  than 
merely  saved  by  good  acting." 

Quick  was  substituted  for  "Woodward  in  Tony  Lumpkin,  and 
Lee  Lewis,  the  harlequin  of  the  theatre,  for  Gentleman  Smith 
in  Young  Marlow  ;  and  both  did  justice  to  their  parts. 

Great  interest  was  taken  by  Goldsmith's  friends  in  the  suc- 
cess of  his  piece.  The  rehearsals  were  attended  by  Johnson, 
Cradock,  Murphy,  Reynolds  and  his  sister,  and  the  whole  Hor- 
neck  connection,  including,  of  course,  the  Jessamy  Bride, 
whose  presence  may  have  contributed  to  flutter  the  anxious  heart 
of  the  author.  The  rehearsals  went  off  with  great  applause,  but 
that  Colman  attributed  to  the  partiality  of  friends.  He  con- 
tinued to  croak,  and  refused  to  risk  any  expense  in  new  scenery 
or  dresses  on  a  play  which  he  was  sure  would  prove  a  failure. 

The  time  was  at  hand  for  the  first  representation,  and  as  yet 
the  comedy  was  without  a  title.  "  We  are  all  in  labor  for  a 
name  for  Goldy's  play,"  said  Johnson,  who,  as  usual,  took  a 
kind  of  fatherly  protecting  interest  in  poor  Goldsmith's  affairs. 
The  Old  House  a  New  Inn  was  thought  of  for  a  time,  but  still 
did  not  please.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  proposed  The  Belle's  Strat- 
agem, an  elegant  title,  but  not  considered  applicable,  the  per- 
plexities of  the  comedy  being  produced  by  the  mistake  of  the 


206  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

hero,  not  the  stratagem  of  the  heroine.  The  name  was  after- 
ward adopted  by  Mrs.  Cowley  for  one  of  her  comedies.  The 
Mistakes  of  a  Night  was  the  title  at  length  fixed  upon,  to  which 
Goldsmith  prefixed  the  words  /She  Stoops  to  Conquer. 

The  evil  bodings  of  Colman  still  continued  ;  they  were  even 
communicated  in  the  box  office  to  the  servant  of  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester  who  was  sent  to  engage  a  box.  Never  did  the  play 
of  a  popular  writer  struggle  into  existence  through  more  dith- 
culties. 

In  the  mean  time  Foote's  Primitive  Puppet-show,  entitled  the 
Handsome  Housemaid,  or  Piety  on  Pattens,  had  been  brought 
out  at  the  Haymarket  on  the  15th  of  February.  All  the  world, 
fashionable  and  unfashionable,  had  crowded  to  the  theatre.  The 
street  was  thronged  with  equipages  —  the  doors  were  stormed 
by  the  mob.  The  burlesque  was  completely  successful,  and 
sentimental  comedy  received  its  quietus.  Even  Garrick,  who  had 
recently  befriended  it,  now  gave  it  a  kick,  as  he  saw  it  going 
down  hill,  and  sent  Goldsmith  a  humorous  prologue  to  help  his 
comedy  of  the  opposite  school.  Garrick  and  Goldsmith,  how- 
ever, were  now  on  very  cordial  terms,  to  which  the  social  meet- 
ings in  the  circle  of  the  Hornecks  and  Bunburys  may  have 
contributed. 

On  the  loth  of  March  the  new  comedy  was  to  be  performed. 
Those  who  had  stood  up  for  its  merits,  and  been  irritated  and 
disgusted  by  the  treatment  it  had  received  from  the  manager, 
determined  to  muster  their  forces,  and  aid  in  giving  it  a  good 
launch  upon  the  town.  The  particulars  of  this  confederation, 
and  its  triumphant  success,  are  amusingly  told  by  Cumberland 
in  his  memoirs. 

"  "We  were  not  over-sanguine  of  success,  but  perfectly  deter- 
mined to  struggle  hard  for  our  author.  We  accordingly  assem- 
bled our  strength  at  the  Shakspeare  tavern,  in  a  considerable 
body,  for  an  early  dinner,  where  Samuel  Johnson  took  the  chair 
at  the  head  of  a  long  table,  and  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the 
corps :  the  poet  took  post  silently  by  his  side,  with  the  Burkes, 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Fitzherbert,  Caleb  Whitefoord,  and  a 
phalanx  of  North  British,  predetermined  applauders,  under  the 
banner  of  Major  Mills,  all  good  men  and  true.  Our  illustrious 
president  was  in  inimitable  glee  ;  and  poor  Goldsmith  that  day 
took  all  his  raillery  as  patiently  and  complacently  as  my  friend 
Boswell  would  have  done  any  day  or  every  day  of  his  life.  In 
the  mean  time,  we  did  not  forget  our  duty ;  and  though  we  had 
a  better  comedy  going,  in  which  Johnson  was  chief  actor,  we 
betook  ourselves  in  good  time  to  our  separate  and  allotted  posts, 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  207 

and  waited  the  awful  drawing  up  of  the  curtain.  As  our  sta- 
tions were  preconcerted,  so  were  our  signals  for  plaudits  arranged 
and  determined  upon  in  a  manner  that  gave  every  one  his  cue 
where  to  look  for  them,  and  how  to  follow  them  up. 

"  We  had  among  us  a  very  worthy  and  efficient  member,  long 
since  lost  to  his  friends  and  the  world  at  large,  AdamXjDrum- 
mond,  of  amiable  memory,  who  was  gifted  by  nature  with  the 
most  sonorous,  and  at  the  same  time,  the  mosf  contagious  laugh 
that  ever  echoed  from  the  human  lungs.  The  neighing  of  the 
horse  of  the  son  of  Hystaspes  was  a  whisper  to  it ;  the  whole 
thunder  of  the  theatre  could  not  drown  it.  This  kind  and  in- 
genious frjend  fairly  forewarned  us  that  he  knew  no  more  when 
to  give  his  fire  than  the  cannon  did  that  was  planted  on  a  battery. 
He  desired,  therefore,  to  have  a  flapper  at  his  elbow,  and  I  had 
the  honor  to  be  deputed  to  that  office.  I  planted  him  in  an 
upper  box,  pretty  nearly  over  the  stage,  in  full  view  of  the  pit 
and  galleries,  and  perfectly  well  situated  to  give  the  echo  all  its 
play  through  the  hollows  and  recesses  of  the  theatre.  The  suc- 
cess of  our  manoeuvre  was  complete.  All  eyes  were  upon  John- 
son, who  sat  in  a  front  row  of  a  side  box  ;  and  when  he  laughed, 
everybody  thought  themselves  warranted  to  roar.  In  the  mean 
time,  my  friend  followed  signals  with  a  rattle  so  irresistibly 
comic  that,  when  he  had  repeated  it  several  times,  the  attention 
of  the  spectators  was  so  engrossed  by  his  person  and  penorm- 
ances,  that  the  progress  of  the  play  seemed  likely  to  become  a 
secondary  object,  and  I  found  it  prudent  to  insinuate  to  him 
that  he  might  halt  his  music  without  any  prejudice  to  the  author ; 
but  alas !  it  was  now  too  late  to  rein  him  in ;  he  had  laughed 
upon  my  signal  where  he  found  no  joke,  and  now,  unluckily,  he 
fancied  that  he  found  a  joke  in  almost  every  thing  that  was  said  ; 
so  that  nothing  in  nature  could  be  more  mal-apropos  than  some 
of  his  bursts  every  now  and  then  were.  These  were  dangerous 
moments,  for  the  pit  began  to  take  umbrage  ;  but  we  carried  our 
point  through,  and  triumphed  not  only  over  Colman's  judgment, 
but  our  own." 

Much  of  this  statement  has  been  condemned  as  exaggerated 
or  discolored.  Cumberland's  memoirs  have  generally  been 
characterized  as  partaking  of  romance,  and  in  the  present  in- 
stance he  had  particular  motives  for  tampering  with  the  truth. 
He  was  a  dramatic  writer  himself,  jealous  of  the  success  of  a 
rival,  and  anxious  to  have  it  attributed  to  the  private  manage- 
ment of  friends.  According  to  various  accounts,  public  and 
private,  such  management  was  unnecessary,  for  the  piece  was 
"  received  throughout  with  the  greatest  acclamations." 


208  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

Goldsmith  in  the  present  instance,  had  not  dared,  as  on  a 
former  occasion,  to  be  present  at  the  first  performance.  He  had 
been  so  overcome  by  his  apprehensions  that,  at  the  preparatory 
dinner  he  could  hardly  utter  a  word,  and  was  so  choked  that  he 
could  not  swallow  a  mouthful.  When  his  friends  trooped  to  the 
theatre,  he  stole  away  to  St.  James's  Park :  there  he  was  found 
by  a  friend  between  seven  and  eight  o'clock,  wandering  up  and 
down  the  Mall  like  a  troubled  spirit.  With  difficulty  he  was 
persuaded  to  go  to  the  theatre,  where  his  presence  might  be  im- 
portant should  any  alteration  be  necessary.  He  arrived  at  the 
opening  of  the  fifth  act,  and  made  his  way  behind  the  scenes. 
Just  as  he  entered  there  was  a  slight  hiss  at  the  improbability 
of  Tony  Lumpkin's  trick  on  his  mother,  in  persuading  her  she 
was  forty  miles  off,  on  Crackskull  Common,  though  she  had 
been  trundled  about  on  her  own  grounds.  "  What's  that? 
what's  that!  "  cried  Goldsmith  to  the  manager,  in  great  agita- 
tion. "  Pshaw  !  Doctor,"  replied  Colman,  sarcastically,  "  don't 
be  frightened  at  a  squib,  when  we've  been  sitting  these  two 
hours  on  a  barrel  of  gunpowder !  "  Though  of  a  most  forgiving 
nature  Goldsmith  did  not  easily  forget  this  ungracious  and  ill- 
timed  sally. 

If  Colman  was  indeed  actuated  by  the  paltry  motives  ascribed 
to  him  in  his  treatment  of  this  play,  he  was  most  amply  pun- 
ished by  its  success,  and  by  the  taunts,  epigrams,  and  censures 
levelled  at  him  through  the  press,  in  which  his  false  prophecies 
were  jeered  at,  his  critical  judgment  called  in  question  ;  and  he 
was  openly  taxed  with  literary  jealousy.  So  galling  and  unre- 
mitting was  the  fire,  that  he  at  length  wrote  to  Goldsmith,  en- 
treating him  "  to  take  him  off  the  rack  of  the  newspapers;  "  in 
the  mean  time,  to  escape  the  laugh  that  was  raised  about  him 
in  the  theatrical  world  of  London,  he  took  refuge  in  Bath  during 
the  triumphant  career  of  the  comedy. 

The  following  is  one  of  the  many  squibs  which  assailed  the 
ears  of  the  manager : 

To  George  Colman,  Esq. 

OH  THE   SUCCESS  OF    DR.  GOLDSMITH'S   NEW  COXBDT. 

"  Come,  Coley,  doff  those  mourning  weeds 

Nor  thus  with  jokes  be  flamm'd  ; 
Tho'  Goldsmith's  present  play  succeeds, 
His  next  may  still  be  damn'd. 

«  As  this  has  'scaped  without  a  fall, 

To  sink  his  next  prepare; 
New  actors  hire  from  Wapping  Wail, 
And  drouses  from  Rag  Fair. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  209 

"  For  scenes  let  tatter'd  blankets  fly, 

The  prologue  Kelly  write; 
Then  swear  again  the  piece  must  die 
Before  the  author's  night. 

«•  Should  these  tricks  fail,  the  lucky  elf, 

To  bring  to  lasting  shame, 
E'en  write  the  best  you  can  yourself, 
And  print  it  in  his  name." 

The  solitary  hiss,  which  had  startled  Goldsmith,  was  as- 
cribed by  some  of  the  newspaper  scribblers  to  Cumberland 
himself,  who  was  "manifestly  miserable"  at  the  delight  of 
the  audience,  or  to  Ossian  Macpherson,  who  was  hostile  to  the 
whole  Johnson  clique,  or  to  Goldsmith's  dramatic  rival,  Kelly. 
The  following  is  one  of  the  epigrams  which  appeared : 

"  At  Dr.  Goldsmith's  merry  play, 
All  the  spectators  laugh,  they  say: 
The  assertion,  sir,  I  must  deny, 
For  Cumberland  and  Kelly  cry. 

Bide,  si  sapis." 

Another,  addressed  to  Goldsmith,  alludes  to  Kelly's  early 
apprenticeship  to  stay-making : 

"  If  Kelly  finds  fault  with  the  shape  of  your  muse, 

And  thinks  that  too  loosely  it  plays, 

He  surely,  dear  Doctor,  will  never  refuse 

To  make  it  a  new  Pair  of  Stays  I " 

Cradock  had  returned  to  the  country  before  the  production 
of  the  play ;  the  following  letter,  written  just  after  the  per- 
formance, gives  an  additional  picture  of  the  thorns  which  be- 
set an  author  in  the  path  of  theatrical  literature : 

"Mr  DEAR  SIR:  The  play  has  met  with  a  success  much  be- 
yond your  expectations  or  mine.  I  thank  you  sincerely  for 
your  epilogue,  which,  however,  could  not  be  used,  but  with 
your  permission  shall  be  printed.  The  story  in  short  is  this. 
Murphy  sent  me  rather  the  outline  of  an  epilogue  than  an 
epilogue,  which  was  to  be  sung  by  Miss  Catley,  and  which  she 
approved ;  Mrs.  Bulkley  hearing  this,  insisted  on  throwing  up 
her  part"  (Miss  Hardcastle)  "  unless,  according  to  the  custom 
of  the  theatre,  she  were  permitted  to  speak  the  epilogue.  In 
this  embarrassment  I  thought  of  making  a  quarrelling  epilogue 
between  Catley  and  her,  debating  who  should  speak  the 
epilogue ;  but  then  Mrs.  Catley  refused  after  I  had  taken  the 


210  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

trouble  of  drawing  it  out.  I  was  then  at  a  loss  indeed ;  an 
epilogue  was  to  be  made,  and  for  none  but  Mrs.  Bulkley.  I 
made  one,  and  Colman  thought  it  too  bad  to  be  spoken  ;  I  was 
obliged,  therefore,  to  try  a  fourth  time,  and  I  made  a  very 
mawkish  thing,  as  you'll  shortly  see.  Such  is  the  history  of 
my  stage  adventures,  and  which  I  have  at  last  done  with.  I 
cannot  help  saying  that  I  am  very  sick  of  the  stage ;  and 
though  I  believe  I  shall  get  three  tolerable  benefits,  yet  I  shall, 
on  the  whole,  be  a  loser,  even  in  a  pecuniary  light ;  my  ease 
and  comfort  I  certainly  lost  while  it  was  in  agitation. 

"  I  am,  my  dear  Cradock,  your  obliged  and  obedient  ser- 
vant, 

"OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

"P.S.   Present  my  most  humble  respects  to  Mrs.  Cradock." 

Johnson,  who  had  taken  such  a  conspicuous  part  in  promot- 
ing the  interests  of  poor  "Goldy,"  was  triumphant  at  the  suc- 
cess of  the  piece.  "I  know  of  no  comedy  for  many  years,' 
said  he,  "that  has  so  much  exhilarated  an  audience;  that  has 
answered  so  much  the  great  end  of  comedy  —  making  an  au- 
dience merry." 

Goldsmith  was  happy,  also,  in  gleaning  applause  from  less 
authoritative  sources.  Northcote,  the  painter,  then  a  youth- 
ful pupil  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  and  Ralph,  Sir  Joshua's  con- 
fidential man,  had  taken  their  stations  in  the  gallery  to  lead 
the  applause  in  that  quarter.  Goldsmith  asked  Northcote's 
opinion  of  the  play.  The  youth  modestly  declared  he  could 
not  presume  to  judge  in  such  matters.  "  Did  it  make  you 
laugh?"  "Oh,  exceedingly!"  "That  is  all  I  require," 
replied  Goldsmith  ;  and  rewarded  him  for  his  criticism  by  box- 
tickets  for  his  first  benefit  night. 

The  comedy  was  immediately  put  to  press,  and  dedicated  to 
Johnson  in  the  following  grateful  and  affectionate  terms : 

"  In  inscribing  this  slight  performance  to  you,  I  do  not  mean 
so  much  to  compliment  you  as  myself.  It  may  do  me  some 
honor  to  inform  the  public,  that  I  have  lived  many  years  in 
intimacy  with  you.  It  may  serve  the  interests  of  mankind 
also  to  inform  them  that  the  greatest  wit  may  be  found  in  a 
character,  without  impairing  the  most  unaffected  piety." 

The  copyright  was  transferred  to  Mr.  Newbery,  according 
to  agreement,  whose  profits  on  the  sale  of  the  work  far  ex- 
ceeded the  debts  for  which  the  author  in  his  perplexities  had 
pre-engaged  it.  The  sum  which  accrued  to  Goldsmith  from  his 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  211 

benefit  nights  afforded  but  a  slight  palliation  of  his  pecuniary 
difficulties.  His  friends,  while  they  exulted  in  his  success, 
little  knew  of  his  continually  inci'easing  embarrassments,  and 
of  the  anxiety  of  mind  which  kept  tasking  his  pen  while  it  im- 
paired the  ease  and  freedom  of  spirit  necessary  to  felicitous 
composition. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

A  NEWSPAPER  ATTACK — THE   EVANS   AFFRAY  —  JOHNSON'S 
COMMENT. 

THE  triumphant  success  of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  brought 
forth,  of  course,  those  carpings  and  cavillings  of  underling 
scribblers,  which  are  the  thorns  and  briers  in  the  path  of 
successful  authors. 

Goldsmith,  though  easily  nettled  by  attacks  of  the  kind, 
was  at  present  too  well  satisfied  with  the  reception  of  his 
comedy  to  heed  them ;  but  the  following  anonymous  letter, 
which  appeared  in  a  public  paper,  was  not  to  be  taken  with 
equal  equanimity  : 

"  For  the  London  Packet. 

"  TO  DR.    GOLDSMITH. 

"  Vous  vous  noyez  par  vanite. 

"  SIR:  The  happy  knack  which  you  have  learned  of  puffing 
your  own  compositions,  provokes  me  to  come  forth.  You 
have  not  been  the  editor  of  newspapers  and  magazines  not  to 
discover  the  trick  of  literary  humbug;  but  the  gauze  is  so  thin 
that  the  very  foolish  part  of  the  world  see  through  it,  and  dis- 
cover the  doctor's  monkey  face  and  cloven  foot.  Your  poetic 
vanity  is  as  unpardonable  as  your  personal.  Would  man  be- 
lieve it,  and  will  woman  bear  it,  to  be  told  that  for  hours  the 
great  Goldsmith  will  stand  surveying  his  grotesque  orang- 
outang's figure  in  a  pier-glass?  Was  but  the  lovely  H — k  as 
much  enamoured,  you  would  not  sigh,  my  gentle  swain,  in 
vain.  But  your  vanity  is  preposterous.  How  will  this  same 
bard  of  Bedlam  ring  the  changes  in  the  praise  of  Goldy ! 
liut  what  has  he  to  be  either  proud  or  vain  of?  'The  Trav- 
eller '  is  a  flimsy  poem,  built  upon  false  principles  —  principles 


212  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

diametrically  opposite  to  liberty.  What  is  TJie  Good-Natured 
Man  but  a  poor,  water-gruel  dramatic  dose  ?  What  is  '  The 
Deserted  Village '  but  a  pretty  poem  of  easy  numbers,  without 
fancy,  dignity,  genius,  or  fire?  And,  pray,  what  may  be  the 
last  speaking  pantomime,  so  praised  by  the  doctor  himself,  but 
an  incoherent  piece  of  stuff,  the  figure  of  a  woman  with  a  fish's 
tail,  without  plot,  incident,  or  intrigue?  We  are  made  to 
laugh  at  stale,  dull  jokes,  wherein  we  mistake  pleasantry  for 
wit,  and  grimace  for  humor ;  wherein  every  scene  is  unnatural 
and  inconsistent  with  the  rules,  the  laws  of  nature  and  of  the 
drama  ;  viz.,  two  gentlemen  come  to  a  man  of  fortune's  house, 
eat,  drink,  etc.,  and  take  it  for  an  inn.  The  one  is  intended 
as  a  lover  for  the  daughter ;  he  talks  with  her  for  some  hours  ; 
and,  when  he  sees  her  again  in  a  different  dress,  he  treats  her 
as  a  bar-girl,  and  swears  she  squinted.  He  abuses  the  master 
of  the  house,  and  threatens  to  kick  him  out  of  his  own  doors. 
The  squire,  whom  we  are  told  is  to  be  a  fool,  proves  to  be  the 
most  sensible  being  of  the  piece  ;  and  he  makes  out  a  whole  act 
by  bidding  his  mother  lie  close  behind  a  bush,  persuading  her 
that  his  father,  her  own  husband,  is  a  highwayman,  and  that 
he  has  come  to  cut  their  throats,  and,  to  give  his  cousin  an 
opportunity  to  go  off,  he  drives  his  mother  over  hedges, 
ditches,  and  through  ponds.  There  is  not,  sweet,  sucking 
Johnson,  a  natural  stroke  in  the  whole  play  but  the  young 
fellow's  giving  the  stolen  jewels  to  the  mother,  supposing  her 
to  be  the  landlady.  That  Mr.  Colman  did  no  justice  to  this 
piece,  I  honestly  allow ;  that  he  told  all  his  friends  it  would  be 
damned,  I  positively  aver ;  and,  from  such  ungenerous  insinu- 
ations, without  a  dramatic  merit,  it  rose  to  public  notice,  and 
it  is  now  the  ton  to  go  and  see  it,  though  I  never  saw  a  person 
that  either  liked  it  or  approved  it,  any  more  than  the  absurd 
plot  of  Home's  tragedy  of  Alonzo.  Mr.  Goldsmith,  correct 
your  arrogance,  reduce  your  vanity,  and  endeavor  to  believe, 
as  a  man,  you  are  of  the  plainest  sort ;  and  as  an  author,  but  a 
mortal  piece  of  mediocrity. 

"Brfselemiroirinfidfele 
Qui  vous  cache  la  verit£. 

"TOM  TICKLE." 


It  would  be  difficult  to  devise  a  letter  more  calculated  to 
wound  the  peculiar  sensibilities  of  Goldsmith.  The  attacks 
upon  him  as  an  author,  though  annoying  enough,  he  could 
have  tolerated  ;  but  then  the  allusion  to  his  "•  grotesque"  per- 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  213 

son,  to  his  studious  attempts  to  adorn  it ;  and  above  all,  to  his 
being  an  unsuccessful  admirer  of  the  lovely  H — k  (the  Jessamy 
Bride),  struck  rudely  upon  the  most  sensitive  part  of  hia 
highly  sensitive  nature.  The  paragraph,  it  was  said,  was 
first  pointed  out  to  him  by  an  officious  friend,  an  Irishman, 
who  told  him  he  was  bound  in  honor  to  resent  it ;  but  he 
needed  no  such  prompting.  He  was  in  a  high  state  of  excite- 
ment and  indignation,  and  accompanied  by  his  friend,  who  is 
said  to  have  been  a  Captain  Higgins,  of  the  marines,  he  re- 
paired to  Paternoster  Row,  to  the  shop  of  Evans,  the  pub- 
lisher, whom  he  supposed  to  be  the  editor  of  the  paper.  Evans 
was  summoned  by  his  shopman  from  an  adjoining  room. 
Goldsmith  announced  his  name.  "I  have  called,"  added  he, 
"  in  consequence  of  a  scurrilous  attack  made  upon  me,  and  an 
unwarrantable  liberty  taken  with  the  name  of  a  young  lady. 
As  for  myself,  I  care  little  ;  but  her  name  must  not  be  sported 
with." 

Evans  professed  utter  ignorance  of  the  matter,  and  said  he 
would  speak  to  the  editor.  He  stooped  to  examine  a  file  of  the 
paper,  in  search  of  the  offensive  article  ;  whereupon  Goldsmith's 
friend  gave  him  a  signal,  that  now  was  a  favorable  moment  for 
the  exercise  of  his  cane.  The  hint  was  taken  as  quick  as  given, 
and  the  cane  was  vigorously  applied  to  the  back  of  the  stooping 
publisher.  The  latter  rallied  in  an  instant,  and,  being  a  stout, 
high-blooded  "Welshman,  returned  the  blows  with  interest.  A 
lamp  hanging  overhead  was  broken,  and  sent  down  a  shower  of 
oil  upon  the  combatants ;  but  the  battle  raged  with  unceasing 
fury.  The  shopman  ran  off  for  a  constable  ;  but  Dr.  Kenrick, 
who  happened  to  be  in  the  adjacent  room,  sallied  forth,  inter- 
fered between  the  combatants,  and  put  an  end  to  the  affray. 
He  conducted  Goldsmith  to  a  coach,  in  exceedingly  battered 
and  tattered  plight,  and  accompanied  him  home,  soothing  him 
with  much  mock  commiseration,  though  he  was  generally  sus- 
pected, and  on  good  grounds,  to  be  the  author  of  the  libel. 

Evans  immediately  instituted  a  suit  against  Goldsmith  for  an 
assault,  but  was  ultimately  prevailed  upon  to  compromise  the 
matter,  the  poet  contributing  fifty  pounds  to  the  Welsh  charity. 

Newspapers  made  themselves,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  ex- 
ceedingly merry  with  the  combat.  Some  censured  him  severely 
for  invading  the  sanctity  of  a  man's  own  house  ;  others  accused 
him  of  having,  in  his  former  capacity  of  editor  of  a  magazine, 
been  guilty  of  the  very  offences  that  he  now  resented  in  others. 
This  drew  from  him  the  following  vindication : 


214  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

"  To  the  Public. 

"  Lest  it  should  be  supposed  that  I  have  been  willing  to 
correct  in  others  an  abuse  of  which  I  have  been  guilty  myself, 
1  beg  leave  to  declare,  that,  in  all  my  life,  I  never  wrote  or 
dictated  a  single  paragraph,  letter,  or  essay  in  a  newspaper, 
except  a  few  moral  essays  under  the  character  of  a  Chinese, 
about  ten  years  ago,  in  the  Ledger,  and  a  letter,  to  which  I 
signed  my  name  in  the  St.  James'  Chronicle.  If  the  liberty  of 
the  press,  therefore,  has  been  abused,  I  have  had  no  hand  in  it. 

"I  have  always  considered  the  press  as  the  protector  of  our 
freedom,  as  a  watchful  guardian,  capable  of  uniting  the  weak 
against  the  encroachments  of  power.  What  concerns  the  pub- 
lic most  properly  admits  of  a  public  discussion.  But,  of  late, 
the  press  has  turned  from  defending  public  interest  to  making 
inroads  upon  private  life ;  from  combating  the  strong  to  over- 
whelming the  feeble.  No  condition  is  now  too  obscure  for  its 
abuse,  and  the  protector  has  become  the  tyrant  of  the  people. 
In  this  manner  the  freedom  of  the  press  is  beginning  to  sow 
the  seeds  of  its  own  dissolution  ;  the  great  must  oppose  it  from 
principle,  and  the  weak  from  fear ;  till  at  last  every  rank  of 
mankind  shall  be  found  to  give  up  its  benefits,  content  with 
security  from  insults. 

"  How  to  put  a  stop  to  this  licentiousness,  by  which  all  are 
indiscriminately  abused,  and  by  which  vice  consequently  escapes 
in  the  general  censure,  I  am  unable  to  tell ;  all  I  could  wish  is 
that,  as  the  law  gives  us  no  protection  against  the  injury,  so  it 
should  give  calumniators  no  shelter  after  having  provoked  cor- 
rection. The  insults  which  we  receive  before  the  public,  by 
being  more  open,  are  the  more  distressing ;  by  treating  them 
with  silent  contempt  we  do  not  pay  a  sufficient  deference  to  the 
opinion  of  the  world.  By  recurring  to  legal  redress  we  too  often 
expose  the  weakness  of  the  law,  which  only  serves  to  increase 
our  mortification  by  failing  to  relieve  us.  In  short,  every  man 
should  singly  consider  himself  as  the  guardian  of  the  liberty  of 
the  press,  and,  as  far  as  his  influence  can  extend,  should  en- 
deavor to  prevent  its  licentiousness  becoming  at  last  the  grave 
of  its  freedom. 

"OLIVER  GOLDSMITH." 

Boswell,  who  had  just  arrived  in  town,  met  with  this  article 
in  a  newspaper  which  he  found  at  Dr.  Johnson's.  The  doctor 
was  from  home  at  the  time,  and  Bozzy  and  Mrs.  Williams,  in 
a  critical  conference  over  the  letter,  determined  from  the  style 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  215 

that  it  must  have  been  written  by  the  lexicographer  himself. 
The  latter  on  his  return  soon  undeceived  them.  "  Sir,"  said  he 
to  Boswell,  "  Goldsmith  would  no  more  have  asked  me  to  have 
/uwif$$rsuch  a  thing  as  that  for  him,  than  he  would  have  asked 
me  to  feed  him  with  a  spoon,  or  do  any  thing  else  that  denoted 
his  imbecility.  Sir,  had  he  shown  it  to  any  one  friend,  he 
would  not  have  been  allowed  to  publish  it.  He  has,  indeed, 
done  it  very  well ;  but  it  is  a  foolish  thing  well  done.  I  sup- 
pose he  has  been  so  much  elated  with  the  success  of  his  new 
comedy,  that  he  has  thought  every  thing  that  concerned  him 
must  be  of  importance  to  the  public." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

BOSWELL   IN   HOLY   WEEK — DINNER    AT    OGLETHORPE*S  —  DINNER 

AT     PAOLl's THE     POLICY     OF     TRUTH GOLDSMITH     AFFECTS 

INDEPENDENCE     OF     ROYALTY  —  PAOLl's     COMPLIMENT JOHN- 
SON's    EULOGIUM    ON   THE    FIDDLE QUESTION    ABOUT    SUICIDE 

—  BOSWELL' s  SUBSERVIENCY. 

THE  return  of  Boswell  to  town  to  his  task  of  noting  down 
the  conversations  of  Johnson  enables  us  to  glean  from  his 
journal  some  scanty  notices  of  Goldsmith.  It  was  now  Holy 
Week,  a  time  during  which  Johnson  was  particularly  solemn  in 
his  manner  and  strict  in  his  devotions.  Boswell,  who  was  the 
imitator  of  the  great  moralist  in  every  thing,  assumed,  of  course, 
an  extra  devoutness  on  the  present  occasion.  "  He  had  an  odd 
mock  solemnity  of  tone  and  manner,"  said  Miss  Burney  (after- 
ward Madame  D'Arblay),  "which  he  had  acquired  from  con- 
stantly thinking,  and  imitating  Dr.  Johnson."  It  would  seem 
that  he  undertook  to  deal  out  some  second-hand  homilies,  &  la 
Johnson,  for  the  edification  of  Goldsmith  during  Holy  Week. 
The  poet,  whatever  might  be  his  religious  feeling,  had  no  dis- 
position to  be  schooled  by  so  shallow  an  apostle.  "  Sir,"  said 
he  in  reply,  "  as  I  take  my  shoes  from  the  shoemaker,  and  my 
coat  from  the  tailor,  so  I  take  my  religion  from  the  priest." 

Boswell  treasured  up  the  reply  in  his  memory  or  his  memo- 
randum book.  A  few  days  afterward,  the  9th  of  April,  he 
kept  Good  Friday  with  Dr.  Johnson,  in  orthodox  style  ;  break- 
fasted with  him  on  tea  and  crossbuns  ;  went  to  church  with  him 
morning  and  evening  ;  fasted  in  the  interval,  and  read  with  him 
in  the  Greek  Testament :  then,  in  the  piety  of  his  heart,  com- 


216  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

plained  of  the  sore  rebuff  he  had  met  with  in  the  course  of  his 
religious  exhortations  to  the  poet,  and  lamented  that  the  latter 
should  indulge  in  "  this  loose  way  of  talking."  "  Sir,"  replied 
Johnson,  "Goldsmith  knows  nothing  —  he  has  made  up  his 
mind  about  nothing." 

This  reply  seems  to  have  gratified  the  lurking  jealousy  of 
Boswell,  and  he  has  recorded  it  in  his  journal.  Johnson,  how- 
ever, with  respect  to  Goldsmith,  and  indeed  with  respect  to 
everybody  else,  blew  hot  as  well  as  cold,  according  to  the  humor 
he  was  in.  Boswell,  who  was  astonished  and  piqued  at  the  con- 
tinually increasing  celebrity  of  the  poet,  observed  some  time 
after  to  Johnson,  in  a  tone  of  surprise,  that  Goldsmith  had  ac- 
quired more  fame  than  all  the  officers  of  the  last  war  who  were 
not  generals.  "Why,  sir,"  answered  Johnson,  his  old  feeling 
of  good-will  working  uppermost,  "you  will  find  ten  thousand 
fit  to  do  what  they  did,  before  you  find  one  to  do  what  Gold- 
smith has  done.  You  must  consider  that  a  thing  is  valued  ac- 
cording to  its  rarity.  A  pebble  that  paves  the  street  is  in  itself 
more  useful  than  the  diamond  upon  a  lady's  finger." 

On  the  13th  of  April  we  find  Goldsmith  and  Johnson  at  the 
table  of  old  General  Oglethorpe,  discussing  the  question  of  the 
degeneracy  of  the  human  race.  Goldsmith  asserts  the  fact, 
and  attributes  it  to  the  influence  of  luxury.  Johnson  denies 
the  fact ;  and  observes  that,  even  admitting  it,  luxury  could  not 
be  the  cause.  It  reached  but  a  small  proportion  of  the  human 
race.  Soldiers,  on  sixpence  a  day,  could  not  indulge  in  luxuries  ; 
the  poor  and  laboring  classes,  forming  the  great  mass  of  man- 
kind, were  out  of  its  sphere.  Wherever  it  could  reach  them,  it 
strengthened  them  and  rendered  them  prolific.  The  conver- 
sation was  not  of  particular  force  or  point  as  reported  by  Bos- 
well ;  the  dinner  party  was  a  very  small  one,  in  which  there  was 
no  provocation  to  intellectual  display. 

After  dinner  they  took  tea  with  the  ladies,  where  we  find  poor 
Goldsmith  happy  and  at  home,  singing  Tony  Lumpkin's  song 
of  the  "Three  Jolly  Pigeons,"  and  another,  called  the  "Humors 
of  Ballamaguery,"  to  a  very  pretty  Irish  tune.  It  was  to  have 
been  introduced  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  but  was  left  out,  as 
the  actress  who  played  the  heroine  could  not  sing. 

It  was  in  these  genial  moments  that  the  sunshine  of  Gold- 
smith's nature  would  break  out,  and  he  would  say  and  do  a 
thousand  whimsical  and  agreeable  things  that  made  him  the 
life  of  the  strictly  social  circle.  Johnson,  with  whom  conver- 
sation was  every  thing,  used  to  judge  Goldsmith  too  much  by 
his  own  colloquial  standard,  and  undervalue  him  for  being  less 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  .  17 

provided  than  himself  with  acquired  facts,  the  ammunition  of 
the  tongue  and  often  the  mere  lumber  of  the  memory ;  others, 
however,  valued  him  for  the  native  felicity  of  his  thoughts, 
however  carelessly  expressed,  and  for  certain  good-fellow  quali- 
ties, less  calculated  to  dazzle  than  to  endear.  "It  is  amazing," 
said  Johnson  one  day,  after  he  himself  had  been  talking  like  an 
oracle  ;  "  it  is  amazing  how  little  Goldsmith  knows  ;  he  seldom 
comes  where  he  is  not  more  ignorant  than  any  one  else."  Yet," 
replied  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  with  affectionate  promptness, 
"  there  is  no  man  whose  company  is  more  liked." 

Two  or  three  days  after  the  dinner  at  General  Oglethorpe's, 
Goldsmith  met  Johnson  again  at  the  table  of  General  Paoli,  the 
hero  of  Corsica.  Martinelli,  of  Florence,  author  of  an  Italian 
History  of  England,  was  among  the  guests ;  as  was  Boswell,  to 
whom  we  are  indebted  for  minutes  of  the  conversation  which 
took  place.  The  question  was  debated  whether  Martinelli 
should  continue  his  history  down  to  that  day.  "  To  be  sure  he 
should,"  said  Goldsmith.  "No,  sir;"  cried  Johnson,  "it 
would  give  great  offence.  He  would  have  to  tell  of  almost  all 
the  living  great  what  they  did  not  wish  told."  Goldsmith. — 
"  It  may,  perhaps,  be  necessary  for  a  native  to  be  more  cautious  ; 
but  a  foreigner,  who  comes  among  us  without  prejudice,  may  be 
considered  as  holding  the  place  of  a  judge,  and  may  speak  his 
mind  freely."  "  Johnson.  —  "  Sir,  a  foreigner,  when  he  sends 
a  work  from  the  press,  ought  to  be  on  his  guard  against  catching 
the  error  and  mistaken  enthusiasm  of  the  people  among  whom 
he  happens  to  be."  Goldsmith.  —  "  Sir,  he  wants  only  to  sell 
his  history,  and  to  tell  truth ;  one  an  honest,  the  other  a  laud- 
able motive."  Johnson.  —  "Sir,  they  are  both  laudable  mo- 
tives. It  is  laudable  in  a  man  to  wish  to  live  by  his  labors ; 
but  he  should  write  so  as  he  may  live  by  them,  not  so  as  he  may 
be  knocked  on  the  head.  I  would  advise  him  to  be  at  Calais 
before  he  publishes  his  history  of  the  present  age.  A  foreigner 
who  attaches  himself  to  a  political  party  in  this  country  is  in  the 
worst  state  that  can  be  imagined  ;  he  is  looked  upon  as  a  mere 
intermeddler.  A  native  may  do  it  from  interest."  Boswell.  — 
"  Or  principle."  Goldsmith.  —  "  There  are  people  who  tell  a 
hundred  political  lies  every  day,  and  are  not  hurt  by  it.  Surely, 
then,  one  may  tell  truth  with  perfect  safety."  Johnson.  — 
"  Why,  sir,  in  the  first  place,  he  who  tells  a  hundred  lies  has 
disarmed  the  force  of  his  lies.  But,  besides,  a  man  had  rather 
have  a  hundred  lies  told  of  him  than  one  truth  which  he  does 
not  wish  to  be  told."  Goldsmith. — "For  my  part,  I'd  tell 
the  truth,  and  shame  the  devil."  Johnson.  —  "Yes,  sir,  but  the 


218  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

devil  will  be  angry.  I  wish  to  shame  the  devil  as  much  as  you 
do,  but  I  should  choose  to  be  out  of  the  reach  of  his  claws." 
Goldsmith.  —  "  His  claws  can  do  you  no  hurt  where  you  have 
the  shield  of  truth." 

This  last  reply  was  one  of  Goldsmith's  lucky  hits,  and  closed 
the  argument  in  his  favor. 

"  We  talked,"  writes  Boswell,  "  of  the  king's  coming  to  see 
Goldsmith's  new  play."  "  I  wish  he  would,"  said  Goldsmith, 
adding,  however,  with  an  affected  indifference,  "  Not  that  it 
would  do  me  the  least  good."  "  Well,  then,"  cried  Johnson, 
laughing,  "  let  us  say  it  would  do  him  good.  No,  sir,  this  affec- 
tation will  not  pass  ;  it  is  mighty  idle.  In  such  a  state  as  ours, 
who  would  not  wish  to  please  the  chief  magistrate?  " 

"  I  do  wish  to  please  him,"  rejoined  Goldsmith.  "  I  remem- 
ber a  line  in  Dryden : 

•  And  every  poet  is  the  monarch's  friend,* 

it  ought  to  be  reversed."  "Nay,"  said  Johnson,  "there  are 
finer  lines  in  Dryden  on  this  subject : 

"  '  For  colleges  on  bounteous  kings  depend, 
And  never  rebel  was  to  arts  a  friend.'  " 

General  Paoli  observed  that  "successful  rebels  might  be." 
"  Happy  rebellions,"  interjected  Martinelli.  "  We  have  no 
such  phrase, ' '  cried  Goldsmith.  ' '  But  have  you  not  the  thing  ? ' ' 
asked  Paoli.  "  Yes,"  replied  Goldsmith,  "  all  our  happy  revo- 
lutions. They  have  hurt  our  constitution,  and  will  hurt  it,  till 
we  mend  it  by  another  HAPPY  REVOLUTION."  This  was  a  sturdy 
sally  of  Jacobitism  that  quite  surprised  Boswell,  but  must  have 
been  relished  by  Johnson. 

General  Paoli  mentioned  a  passage  in  the  play,  which  had 
been  construed  into  a  compliment  to  a  lady  of  distinction,  whose 
marriage  with  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  had  excited  the  strong 
disapprobation  of  the  king  as  a  mesalliance.  Boswell,  to  draw 
Goldsmith  out,  pretended  to  think  the  compliment  unintentional. 
The  poet  smiled  and  hesitated.  The  general  came  to  his  relief. 
"  Monsieur  Goldsmith,"  said  he,  "  est  comme  la  mer,  qui  jette 
des  perles  et  beaucoup  d'autres  belles  choses,  sans  s'en  apper- 
cevoir  "  (Mr.  Goldsmith  is  like  the  sea,  which  casts  forth  pearls 
and  many  other  beautiful  things  without  perceiving  it) . 

"  Tres-bien  dit  et  tres-e'le'garament "  (very  well  said,  and 
very  elegantly),  exclaimed  Goldsmith;  delighted  with  so  beau- 
tiful a  compliment  from  such  a  quarter. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  219 

Johnson  spoke  disparagingly  of  the  learning  of  Mr.  Harris, 
of  Salisbury,  and  doubted  his  being  a  good  Grecian.  "He  is 
what  is  much  better,"  cried  Goldsmith,  with  prompt  good-na- 
ture, "he  is  a  worthy,  humane  man."  "Nay,  sir,"  rejoined 
the  logical  Johnson,  "  that  is  not  to  the  purpose  of  our  argu- 
ment ;  that  will  prove  that  he  can  play  upon  the  fiddle  as  well 
as  Giardini,  as  that  he  is  an  eminent  Grecian."  Goldsmith 
found  that  he  had  got  into  a  scrape,  and  seized  upon  Giardini  to 
help  him  out  of  it.  "  The  greatest  musical  performers,"  said 
he,  dexterously  turning  the  conversation,  "  have  but  small 
emoluments  ;  Giardini,  I  am  told,  does  not  get  above  seven  hun- 
dred a  year."  "  That  is  indeed  but  little  for  a  man  to  get," 
observed  Johnson,  "  who  does  best  that  which  so  many  endeavor 
to  do.  There  is  nothing,  I  think,  in  which  the  power  of  art  is 
shown  so  much  as  in  playing  on  the  fiddle.  In  all  other  things 
we  can  do  something  at  first.  Any  man  will  forge  a  bar  of 
iron,  if  you  give  him  a  hammer ;  not  so  well  as  a  smith,  but  tol- 
erably. A  man  will  saw  a  piece  of  wood,  and  make  a  box, 
though  a  clumsy  one ;  but  give  him  a  fiddle  and  fiddlestick, 
and  he  can  do  nothing." 

This,  upon  the  whole,  though  reported  by  the  one-sided  Bos- 
well,  is  a  tolerable  specimen  of  the  conversations  of  Goldsmith 
and  Johnson  ;  the  former  heedless,  often  illogical,  always  on  the 
kind-hearted  side  of  the  question,  and  prone  to  redeem  himself 
by  lucky  hits  ;  the  latter  closely  argumentative,  studiously  sen- 
tentious, often  profound,  and  sometimes  laboriously  prosaic. 

They  had  an  argument  a  few  days  later  at  Mr.  Thrale's  table, 
on  the  subject  of  suicide.  "  Do  you  think,  sir,"  said  Boswell, 
"  that  all  who  commit  suicide  are  mad?  "  "  Sir,"  replied  John- 
son, "  they  are  not  often  universally  disordered  in  their  intel- 
lects, but  one  passion  presses  so  upon  them  that  they  yield  to 
it,  and  commit  suicide,  as  a  passionate  man  will  stab  another. 
I  have  often  thought,"  added  he,  "  that  after  a  man  has  taken 
the  resolution  to  kill  himself,  it  is  not  courage  in  him  to  do  any 
thing,  however  desperate,  because  he  has  nothing  to  fear."  "  I 
don't  see  that,"  observed  Goldsmith.  "  Nay,  but,  my  dear 
sir,"  rejoined  Johnson,  "  why  should  you  not  see  what  every 
one  else  does?"  "It  is,"  replied  Goldsmith,  "for  fear  of 
something  that  he  has  resolved  to  kill  himself ;  and  will  not  that 
timid  disposition  restrain  him?  "  "It  does  not  signify,"  pur- 
sued Johnson,  "  that  the  fear  of  something  made  him  resolve  ; 
it  is  upon  the  state  of  his  mind,  after  the  resolution  is  taken, 
that  I  argue.  Suppose  a  man  either  from  fear,  or  pride,  or  con- 
science, or  whatever  motive,  has  resolved  to  kill  himself ;  when 


220  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

once  the  resolution  is  taken  he  has  nothing  to  fear.  He  may 
then  go  and  take  the  King  of  Prussia  by  the  nose  at  the  head  of 
his  army.  He  cannot  fear  the  rack  who  is  determined  to  kill 
himself."  Boswell  reports  no  more  of  the  discussion,  though 
Goldsmith  might  have  continued  it  with  advantage  :  for  the  very 
timid  disposition,  which  through  fear  of  something,  was  impel- 
ling the  man  to  commit  suicide,  might  restrain  him  from  an  act, 
involving  the  punishment  of  the  rack,  more  terrible  to  him  than 
death  itself. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  in  all  these  reports  by  Boswell,  we  have 
scarcely  any  thing  but  the  remarks  of  Johnson ;  it  is  only  by 
accident  that  he  now  and  then  gives  us  the  observations  of 
others,  when  they  are  necessary  to  explain  or  set  off  those  of 
his  hero.  "When  in  that  presence,"  says  Miss  Burney,  "  he 
was  unobservant,  if  not  contemptuous  of  every  one  else.  In 
truth,  when  he  met  with  Dr.  Johnson,  he  commonly  forbore 
even  answering  any  thing  that  was  said,  or  attending  to  any  thing 
that  went  forward,  lest  he  should  miss  the  smallest  sound  from 
that  voice,  to  which  he  paid  such  exclusive,  though  merited 
homage.  But  the  moment  that  voice  burst  forth,  the  attention 
which  it  excited  on  Mr.  Boswell  amounted  almost  to  pain.  His 
eyes  goggled  with  eagerness ;  he  leaned  his  ear  almost  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  Doctor ;  and  his  mouth  dropped  open  to  catch 
every  syllable  that  might  be  uttered ;  nay,  he  seemed  not  only 
to  dread  losing  a  word,  but  to  be  anxious  not  to  miss  a  breath- 
ing ;  as  if  hoping  from  it  latently,  or  mystically,  some  informa- 
tion." 

On  one  occasion  the  Doctor  detected  Boswell,  or  Bozzy,  as 
he  called  him,  eavesdropping  behind  his  chair,  as  he  was  con- 
versing with  Miss  Burney  at  Mr.  Thrale's  table.  "  What  are 
you  doing  there,  sir?"  cried  he,  turning  round  angrily,  and 
clapping  his  hand  upon  his  knee.  "  Go  to  the  table,  sir." 

Boswell  obeyed  with  an  air  of  affright  and  submission,  which 
raised  a  smile  on  every  face.  Scarce  had  he  taken  his  seat, 
however,  at  a  distance,  than  impatient  to  get  again  at  the  side 
of  Johnson,  he  rose  and  was  running  off  in  quest  of  something 
to  show  him,  when  the  doctor  roared  after  him  authoritatively, 
"What  are  you  thinking  of,  sir?  Why  do  you  get  up  before 
the  cloth  is  removed?  Come  back  to  your  place,  sir;  "  —  and 
the  obsequious  spaniel  did  as  he  was  commanded.  "Running 
about  in  the  middle  of  meals !  ' '  muttered  the  Doctor,  pursing 
his  mouth  at  the  same  time  to  restrain  his  rising  risibility. 

Boswell  got  another  rebuff  from  Johnson,  which  would  have 
demolished  any  other  man.  He  had  been  teasing  him  with 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  221 

many  direct  questions,  such  as,  What  did  yon  do,  sir?  "What 
did  you  say,  sir?  until  the  great  philologist  became  perfectly 
enraged.  "  I  will  not  be  put  to  the  question!"  roared  he. 
"  Don't  you  consider,  sir,  that  these  are  not  the  manners  of  a 
gentleman?  I  will  not  be  baited  with  tvhat  and  why;  What  is 
this?  What  is  that?  Why  is  a  cow's  tail  long?  Why  is  a  fox's 
tail  bushy?"  "Why,  sir,"  replied  pil-garlic,  you  are  so 
good  that  I  venture  to  trouble  you."  "  Sir,"  replied  Johnson, 
"my  being  so  good  is  no  reason  why  you  should  be  so  ill.1' 
"  You  have  but  two  topics,  sir ;  "  exclaimed  he  on  another  oc- 
casion, "  yourself  and  me,  and  I  am  sick  of  both." 

Bos  well's  inveterate  disposition  to  toad  was  a  sore  cause 
of  mortification  to  his  father,  the  old  laird  of  Auchinleck  (or 
Affleck) .  He  had  been  annoyed  by  his  extravagant  devotion 
to  Paoli,  but  then  he  was  something  of  a  military  hero  ;  but  this 
tagging  at  the  heels  of  Dr.  Johnson,  whom  he  considered  a 
kind  of  pedagogue,  set  his  Scotch  blood  in  a  ferment.  "  There's 
nae  hope  for  Jamie,  mon,"  said  he  to  a  friend  ;  "  Jamie  is  gaen 
clean  gyte.  What  do  you  think,  mon?  He's  done  wi'  Paoli; 
he's  off  wi'  the  land-louping  scoundrel  of  a  Corsican ;  and  whose 
tail  do  you  think  he  has  pinn'd  himself  to  now,  mon?  A  domi- 
nie, mon  ;  an  auld  dominie :  he  keeped  a  schule,  and  cau'd  it 
an  acaadamy." 

We  shall  show  in  the  next  chapter  that  Jamie's  devotion  to 
the  dominie  did  not  go  unrewarded. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

CHANGES    IN     THE     LITERARY     CLUB  —  JOHNSON'S     OBJECTION     TO 
GARRICK  —  ELECTION   OF   BOSWELL. 

THE  Literary  Club  (as  we  have  termed  the  club  in  Gerard 
Street,  though  it  took  that  name  some  time  later)  had  now 
been  in  existence  several  years.  Johnson  was  exceedingly 
chary  at  first  of  its  exclusiveness,  and  opposed  to  its  being  aug- 
mented in  number.  Not  long  after  its  institution,  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  was  speaking  of  it  to  Garrick.  "I  like  it  much," 
said  little  David,  briskly;  "I  think  I  shall  be  of  you." 
"When  Sir  Joshua  mentioned  this  to  Dr.  Johnson,"  says  Bos- 
well,  "  he  was  much  displeased  with  the  actor's  conceit.  '  He'll 
be  of  us?'  growled  he.  '  How  does  he  know  we  will  permit 


222  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

him  ?    The  first  duke  in  England  has  no  right  to  hold  such  lan- 
guage.' " 

When  Sir  John  Hawkins  spoke  favorably  of  Garrick's  pre- 
tensions, "Sir,"  replied  Johnson,  "he  will  disturb  us  by  his 
buffoonery."  In  the  same  spirit  he  declared  to  Mr.  Thrale, 
that  if  Garrick  should  apply  for  admission,  he  would  black-ball 
him.  "Who,  sir?"  exclaimed  Thrale,  with  surprise;  "Mr. 
Garrick — your  friend,  your  companion — black-ball  him!" 
"  Why,  sir,"  replied  Johnson,  "  I  love  my  little  David  dearly 
—  better  than  all  or  any  of  his  flatterers  do ;  but  surely  one 
ought  to  sit  in  a  society  like  ours, 

"  '  Unelbowed  by  a  gamester,  pimp,  or  player.' '» 

The  exclusion  from  the  club  was  a  sore  mortification  to  Gar- 
rick, though  he  bore  it  without  complaining.  He  could  not 
help  continually  to  ask  questions  about  it  —  what  was  going  on 
there  — whether  he  was  ever  the  subject  of  conversation.  By 
degrees  the  rigor  of  the  club  relaxed :  some  of  the  members 
grew  negligent.  Beauclerc  lost  his  right  of  membership  by 
neglecting  to  attend.  On  his  marriage,  however,  with  Lady 
Diana  Spencer,  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  and 
recently  divorced  from  Viscount  Bolingbroke,  he  had  claimed 
and  regained  his  seat  in  the  club.  The  number  of  members 
had  likewise  been  augmented.  The  proposition  to  increase  it 
originated  with  Goldsmith.  "  It  would  give,"  he  thought,  "  an 
agreeable  variety  to  their  meetings ;  for  there  can  be  nothing 
new  amongst  us,"  said  he  ;  "we  have  travelled  over  each  other's 
minds."  Johnson  was  piqued  at  the  suggestion.  "  Sir,"  said 
he,  "you  have  not  travelled  over  my  mind,  I  promise  you." 
Sir  Joshua,  less  confident  in  the  exhaustless  fecundity  of  his 
mind,  felt  and  acknowledged  the  force  of  Goldsmith's  sugges- 
tion. Several  new  members,  therefore,  had  been  added ;  the 
first,  to  his  great  joy,  was  David  Garrick.  Goldsmith,  who 
was  now  on  cordial  terms  with  him,  had  zealously  promoted  his 
election,  and  Johnson  had  given  it  his  warm  approbation. 
Another  new  member  was  Beauclerc's  friend,  Lord  Charle- 
mont;  and  a  still  more  important  one  was  Mr.,  afterward  Sir 
William  Jones,  the  famous  Orientalist,  at  that  time  a  young 
lawyer  of  the  Temple  and  a  distinguished  scholar. 

To  the  great  astonishment  of  the  club,  Johnson  now  proposed 
his  devoted  follower,  Boswell,  as  a  member.  He  did  it  in  a 
note  addressed  to  Goldsmith,  who  presided  on  the  evening  of 
the  23d  of  April.  The  nomination  was  seconded  bv  Beauclerc, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  223 

According  to  the  rules  of  the  club,  the  ballot  would  take  place 
at  the  next  meeting  (on  the  30th)  ;  there  was  an  intervening 
week,  therefore,  in  which  to  discuss  the  pretensions  of  the  can- 
didate. We  may  easily  imagine  the  discussions  that  took 
place.  Boswell  had  made  himself  absurd  in  such  a  variety  of 
ways,  that  the  very  idea  of  his  admission  was  exceedingly  irk- 
some to  some  of  the  members.  The  honor  of  being  elected 
into  the  Turk's  Head  Club,"  said  the  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph,  "  is 
not  inferior  to  that  of  being  representative  of  Westminster  and 
Surrey  ;  "  what  had  Boswell  done  to  merit  such  an  honor?  what 
chance  had  he  of  gaining  it  ?  The  answer  was  simple  :  he  had 
been  the  persevering  worshipper  if  not  sycophant  of  Johnson. 
The  great  lexicographer  had  a  heart  to  be  won  by  apparent 
affection  ;  he  stood  forth  authoritatively  in  support  of  his  vassal. 
If  asked  to  state  the  merits  of  the  candidate,  he  summed  them 
up  in  an  indefinite  but  comprehensive  word  of  his  own  coining ; 
he  was  clubable.  He  moreover  gave  significant  hints  that  if 
Boswell  were  kept  out  he  should  oppose  the  admission  of  any 
other  candidate.  No  further  opposition  was  made ;  in  fact 
none  of  the  members  had  been  so  fastidious  and  exclusive  in 
regard  to  the  club  as  Johnson  himself  ;  and  if  he  were  pleased, 
they  were  easily  satisfied  ;  besides,  they  knew  that  with  all  his 
faults,  Boswell  was  a  cheerful  companion,  and  possessed  lively 
social  qualities. 

On  Friday,  when  the  ballot  was  to  take  place,  Beauclerc 
gave  a  dinner,  at  his  house  in  the  Adelphi,  where  Boswell  met 
several  of  the  members  who  were  favorable  to  his  election. 
After  dinner  the  latter  adjourned  to  the  club,  leaving  Boswell 
in  company  with  Lady  Di  Beauclerc  until  the  fate  of  his  elec- 
tion should  be  known.  He  sat,  he  says,  in  a  state  of  anxiety 
which  even  the  charming  conversation  of  Lady  Di  could  not 
entirely  dissipate.  It  was  not  long  before  tidings  were  brought 
of  his  election,  and  he  was  conducted  to  the  place  of  meeting, 
where,  beside  the  company  he  had  met  at  dinner,  Burke,  Dr. 
Nugent,  Garrick,  Goldsmith,  and  Mr.  William  Jones  were 
waiting  to  receive  him.  The  club,  notwithstanding  all  its 
learned  dignity  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  could  at  times  "  un- 
bend and  play  the  fool  "  as  well  as  less  important  bodies. 
Some  of  its  jocose  conversations  have  at  times  leakftd  out,  and 
a  society  in  which  Goldsmith  could  venture  to  sing  his  song  of 
"  an  old  woman  tossed  in  a  blanket,"  could  not  be  so  very  staid 
in  its  gravity.  We  may  suppose,  therefore,  the  jokes  that  had 
been  passing  among  the  members  while  awaiting  the  arrival  of 
Boswell.  Beauclerc  himself  could  not  have  repressed  his  dis- 


224  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

position  for  a  sarcastic  pleasantry.     At  least  we  have  a  right  to 
presume  all  this  from  the  conduct  of  Dr.  Johnson  himself. 

With  all  his  gravity  he  possessed  a  deep  fund  of  quiet  hu- 
mor, and  felt  a  kind  of  whimsical  responsibility  to  protect  the 
club  from  the  absurd  propensities  of  the  very  questionable 
associate  he  had  thus  inflicted  on  them.  Rising,  therefore,  as 
Boswell  entered,  he  advanced  with  a  very  doctorial  air,  placed 
himself  behind  a  chair,  on  which  he  leaned  as  on  a  desk  or  pul- 
pit, and  then  delivered,  ex  cathedra,  a  mock  solemn  charge, 
pointing  out  the  conduct  expected  from  him  as  a  good  member 
of  the  club  ;  what  he  was  to  do,  and  especially  what  he  was  to 
avoid;  including  in  the  latter,  no  doubt,  all  those  petty,  pry- 
ing, questioning,  gossiping,  babbling  habits  which  had  so  often 
grieved  the  spirit  of  the  lexicographer.  It  is  to  be  regretted 
that  Boswell  has  never  thought  proper  to  note  down  the  par- 
ticulars of  this  charge,  which,  from  the  well-known  characters 
and  positions  of  the  parties,  might  have  furnished  a  parallel  to 
the  noted  charge  of  Launcelot  Gobbo  to  his  dog. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

AT  DILLY'S  —  CONVERSATIONS  ON  NATURAL  HISTORY  —  IN- 
TERMEDDLING OF  BOSWELL  DISPUTE    ABOUT  TOLERATION  

JOHNSON'S  REBUFF  TO  GOLDSMITH  —  HIS  APOLOGY  —  MAN- WOR- 
SHIP—  DOCTORS   MAJOR  AND   MINOR A   FAREWELL  VISIT. 

A  FEW  days  after  the  serio-comic  scene  of  the  elevation  of 
Boswell  into  the  Literary  Club,  we  find  that  indefatigable  biog- 
rapher giving  particulars  of  a  dinner  at  the  Dillys,  booksellers, 
in  the  Poultry,  at  which  he  met  Goldsmith  and  Johnson,  with 
several  other  literary  characters.  His  anecdotes  of  the  conver- 
sation, of  course,  go  to  glorify  Dr.  Johnson ;  for,  as  he  ob- 
serves in  his  biography,  "  his  conversation  alone,  or  what  led 
to  it,  or  was  interwoven  with  it,  is  the  business  of  this  work." 
Still  on  the  present,  as  on  other  occasions,  he  gives  uninten- 
tional and  perhaps  unavoidable  gleams  of  Goldsmith's  good 
sense,  which  show  that  the  latter  only  wanted  a  less  prejudiced 
and  more  impartial  reporter,  to  put  down  the  charge  of  collo- 
quial incapacity  so  unjustly  fixed  upon  him.  The  conversation 
turned  upon  the  natural  history  of  birds,  a  beautiful  subject,  on 
which  the  poet,  from  his  recent  studies,  his  habits  of  observa- 
tion, and  his  natural  tastes,  must  have  talked  with  instruction 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  225 

and  feeling ;  yet,  though  we  have  much  of  what  Johnson  said, 
we  have  only  a  casual  remark  or  two  of  Goldsmith.  One  was 
on  the  migration  of  swallows,  which  he  pronounced  partial ; 
"  The  stronger  ones,"  said  he,  "  migrate,  the  others  do  not." 

Johnson  denied  to  the  brute  creation  the  faculty  of  reason. 
"Birds,"  said  he,  "build  by  instinct;  they  never  improve; 
they  build  their  first  nest  as  well  as  any  one  they  ever  build." 
"  Yet  we  see,"  observed  Goldsmith,  "  if  you  take  away  a  bird's 
nest  with  the  eggs  in  it,  she  will  make  a  slighter  nest  and  lay 
again."  "  Sir,"  replied  Johnson,  "  that  is  because  at  first  she 
has  full  time,  and  makes  her  nest  deliberately.  In  the  case 
you  mention,  she  is  pressed  to  lay,  and  must,  therefore,  make 
her  nest  quickly,  and  consequently  it  will  be  slight."  "  The 
nidification  of  birds,"  rejoined  Goldsmith,  "  is  what  is  least 
known  in  natural  history,  though  one  of  the  most  curious 
things  in  it."  While  conversation  was  going  on  in  this  placid, 
agreeable,  and  instructive  manner,  the  eternal  meddler  and 
busy-body  Boswell  must  intrude,  to  put  it  in  a  brawl.  The  Dillys 
were  dissenters  ;  two  of  their  guests  were  dissenting  clergymen  ; 
another,  Mr.  Toplady,  was  a  clergyman  of  the  Established 
Church.  Johnson,  himself,  was  a  zealous,  uncompromising 
Churchman.  None  but  a  marplot  like  Boswell  would  have 
thought,  on  such  an  occasion,  and  in  such  company,  to  broach 
the  subject  of  religious  toleration ;  but,  as  has  been  well  ob- 
served, "  it  was  his  perverse  inclination  to  introduce  subjects 
that  he  hoped  would  produce  difference  and  debate."  In  this 
present  instance  he  gained  his  point.  An  animated  dispute 
immediately  arose,  in  which,  according  to  BoswelPs  report, 
Johnson  monopolized  the  greater  part  of  the  conversation  ;  not 
always  treating  the  dissenting  clergymen  with  the  greatest  cour- 
tesy, and  even  once  wounding  the  feelings  of  the  mild  and  amia- 
ble Bennet  Langton  by  his  harshness. 

Goldsmith  mingled  a  little  in  the  dispute  and  with  some  ad- 
vantage, but  was  cut  short  by  flat  contradictions  when  most 
in  the  right.  He  sat  for  a  time  silent  but  impatient  under 
such  overbearing  dogmatism,  though  Boswell,  with  his  usual 
misinterpretation,  attributes  his  "  restless  agitation  "  to  a  wish 
to  get  in  and  shine.  "Finding  himself  excluded,"  continues 
Boswell,  "  he  had  taken  his  hat  to  go  away,  but  remained  for  a 
time  with  it  in  his  hand,  like  a  gamester,  who,  at  the  end  of 
a  long  night,  lingers  for  a  little  while  to  see  if  he  can  have  a 
favorable  opportunity  to  finish  with  success."  Once  he  was 
beginning  to  speak  when  he  was  overpowered  by  the  loud 
voice  of  Johnson,  who  was  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table,  and 


226  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

did  not  perceive  his  attempt;  whereupon  he  threw  down,  as  it 
were,  his  hat  and  his  argument,  and,  darting  an  angry  glance  at 
Johnson,  exclaimed  in  a  bitter  tone,  "  Take  it." 

Just  then  one  of  the  disputants  was  beginning  to  speak,  when 
Johnson  uttering  some  sound,  as  if  about  to  interrupt  him, 
Goldsmith,  according  to  Boswell,  seized  the  opportunity  to  vent 
his  own  envy  and  spleen  under  pretext  of  supporting  another 
person.  "  Sir,"  said  he  to  Johnson,  "  the  gentleman  has  heard 
you  patiently  for  an  hour;  pray  allow  us  now  to  hear  him." 
It  was  a  reproof  in  the  lexicographer's  own  style,  and  he  may 
have  felt  that  he  merited  it ;  but  he  was  not  accustomed  to  be 
reproved.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  sternly,  "  I  was  not  interrupting 
the  gentleman  ;  I  was  only  giving  him  a  signal  of  my  attention. 
Sir,  you  are  impertinent."  Goldsmith  made  no  reply,  but  after 
some  time  went  away,  having  another  engagement. 

That  evening,  as  Boswell  was  on  the  way  with  Johnson  and 
Langton  to  the  club,  he  seized  the  occasion  to  make  some  dis- 
paraging remarks  on  Goldsmith,  which  he  thought  would  just 
then  be  acceptable  to  the  great  lexicographer.  "  It  was  a 
pity,"  he  said,  "  that  Goldsmith  would,  on  every  occasion, 
endeavor  to  shine,  by  which  he  so  often  exposed  himself." 
Langton  contrasted  him  with  Addison,  who,  content  with  the 
fame  of  his  writings,  acknowledged  himself  unfit  for  conversa- 
tion ;  and  on  being  taxed  by  a  lady  with  silence  in  company, 
replied,  "  Madam,  I  have  but  nine  pence  in  ready  money,  but 
I  can  draw  for  a  thousand  pounds."  To  this  Boswell  rejoined 
that  Goldsmith  had  a  great  deal  of  gold  in  his  cabinet,  but  was 
always  taking  out  his  purse.  "Yes,  sir,"  chuckled  Johnson. 
"  and  that  so  often  an  empty  purse." 

By  the  time  Johnson  arrived  at  the  club,  however,  his  angry 
feelings  had  subsided,  and  his  native  generosity  and  sense  of 
justice  had  got  the  uppermost.  He  found  Goldsmith  in  com- 
pany with  Burke,  Garrick,  and  other  members,  but  sitting  silent 
and  apart,  "  brooding,"  as  Boswell  says,  "over  the  reprimand 
he  had  received."  Johnson's  good  heart  yearned  toward  him  ; 
and  knowing  his  placable  nature,  "  I'll  make  Goldsmith  forgive 
me,"  whispered  he  ;  then,  with  a  loud  voice,  "  Dr.  Goldsmith," 
said  he,  "  something  passed  to-day  where  you  and  I  dined  —  1 
ask  your  pardon."  The  ire  of  the  poet  was  extinguished  in  an 
instant,  and  his  grateful  affection  for  the  magnanimous  though 
sometimes  overbearing  moralist  rushed  to  his  heart.  "  It  must 
be  much  from  you,  sir,"  said  he,  "that  I  take  ill!"  "And 
so,"  adds  Boswell,  "  the  difference  was  over,  and  they  were  on 
as  easy  terms  as  ever,  and  Goldsmith  rattled  away  as  usual." 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  227 

We  do  not  think  these  stories  tell  to  the  poet's  disadvantage, 
even  though  related  by  Boswell. 

Goldsmith,  with  all  his  modesty,  could  not  be  ignorant  of  his 
proper  merit ;  and  must  have  felt  annoyed  at  times  at  being 
undervalued  and  elbowed  aside  by  light-minded  or  dull  men,  iu 
their  blind  and  exclusive  homage  to  the  literary  autocrat.  It 
was  a  fine  reproof  he  gave  to  Boswell  on  one  occasion,  for  talk- 
ing of  Johnson  as  entitled  to  the  honor  of  exclusive  superiority. 
"  Sir,  you  are  for  making  a  monarchy  what  should  be  a  repub 
lie."  On  another  occasion,  when  he  was  conversing  in  com- 
pany with  great  vivacity,  and  apparently  to  the  satisfaction  of 
those  around  him,  an  honest  Swiss,  who  sat  near,  one  George 
Michael  Moser,  keeper  of  the  Royal  Academy,  perceiving  Dr. 
Johnson  rolling  himself  as  if  about  to  speak,  exclaimed,  "  Stay, 
stay  !  Toctor  Shonson  is  going  to  say  something."  "  And  are 
you  sure,  sir,"  replied  Goldsmith,  sharply,  "  that  you  can  com- 
prehend what  he  says?  " 

This  clever  rebuke,  which  gives  the  main  zest  to  the  anecdote, 
is  omitted  by  Boswell,  who  probably  did  not  perceive  the  point 
of  it. 

He  relates  another  anecdote  of  the  kind,  on  the  authority  of 
Johnson  himself.  The  latter  and  Goldsmith  were  one  evening 
in  company  with  the  Rev.  George  Graham,  a  master  of  Eton, 
who,  notwithstanding  the  sobriety  of  his  cloth,  had  got  intoxi- 
cated "  to  about  the  pitch  of  looking  at  one  man  and  talking 
to  another."  "  Doctor,"  cried  he  in  an  ecstasy  of  devotion  and 
good- will,  but  goggling  by  mistake  upon  Goldsmith,  "  I  should 
be  glad  to  see  you  at  Eton."  ;'  1  shall  be  glad  to  wait  upon 
you,"  replied  Goldsmith.  "  No,  no !  ''  cried  the  other  eagerly, 
"  'tis  not  you  I  mean,  Doctor  Minor,  'tis  Doctor  Major  there." 

"  You  may  easily  conceive,"  said  Johnsoo  in  relating  the  anec- 
dote, "  what  effect  this  had  upon  Goldsmith,  who  was  irascible 
as  a  hornet."  The  only  comment,  however,  which  he  is  said 
to  have  made,  partakes  more  of  quaint  and  dry  bnmor  than 
bitterness  :  "  That  Graham,"  said  he,  "  is  enough  to  make  one 
commit  suicide."  What  more  could  be  said  to  express  the  in- 
tolerable nuisance  of  a  consummate  bore? 

We  have  now  given  the  last  scenes  between  Goldsmith  and 
Johnson  which  stand  recorded  by  Boswell.  The  latter  called 
on  the  poet  a  few  days  after  the  dinner  at  Dilly's,  to  take 
leave  of  him  prior  to  departing  for  Scotland ;  yet,  even  in  this 
last  interview,  he  contrives  to  get  up  a  charge  of  "  jealousy 
and  envy."  Goldsmith,  he  would  fain  persuade  us,  is  very 
angry  that  Johnson  is  going  to  travel  with  him  in  Scotland ; 


228  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

and  endeavors  to  persuade  him  that  he  will  be  a  dead  weight 
"  to  lug  along  through  the  Highlands  and  Hebrides."  Any  one 
else,  knowing  the  character  and  habits  of  Johnson,  would 
have  thought  the  same ;  and  no  one  but  Boswell  would  have 
wipposed  his  office  of  bear-leader  to  the  ursa  major  a  thing  to 
be  envied.1 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

PROJECT  OF  A  DICTIONARY  OF  ARTS  AND  SCIENCES  —  DISAPPOINT- 
MENT —  NEGLIGENT  AUTHORSHIP  —  APPLICATION  FOR  A  PENSION 
—  BEATTIE'S  ESSAY  ON  TRUTH  —  PUBLIC  ADULATION — A  HIGH- 
MINDED  REBUKE. 

THE  work  which  Goldsmith  had  still  in  hand  being  already 
paid  for,  and  the  money  gone,  some  new  scheme  must  be  de- 
vised to  provide  for  the  past  and  the  future  —  for  impending 
debts  which  threatened  to  crush  him,  and  expenses  which 
were  continually  increasing.  He  now  projected  a  work  of 
greater  compass  than  any  he  had  yet  undertaken  ;  a  Dictionary 
of  Arts  and  Sciences  on  a  comprehensive  scale,  which  was  to 
occupy  a  number  of  volumes.  For  this  he  received  promises 
of  assistance  from  several  powerful  hands.  Johnson  was  to 
contribute  an  article  on  ethics ;  Burke,  an  abstract  of  his 
"  Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,"  an  essay  on  the  Berk- 
leyan  system  of  philosophy,  and  others  on  political  science ; 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  an  essay  on  painting ;  and  Garrick,  while 
he  undertook  on  his  own  part  to  furnish  an  essay  on  acting, 
engaged  Dr.  Burney  to  contribute  an  article  on  music.  Here 
was  a  great  array  of  talent  positively  engaged,  while  other 

i  One  of  Peter  Pindar's  (Dr.  Wolcot)  most  amusing  jeux  d'esprit  is  his  congratu- 
latory epistle  to  Boswell  on  this  tour,  of  which  we  subjoin  a  few  lines. 

O  Boswell,  Bozzy,  Bruce,  whate'er  thy  name, 
Thou  mighty  shark  for  anecdote  and  fame ; 
Thou  jackal,  leading  lion  Johnson  forth, 
To  eat  M'Pherson  "midst  hia  native  north; 


To  frighten  grave  professors  with  his  roar, 
And  shake  the  Hebrides  from  shore  to  shore. 

Bless'd  be  thy  labors,  most  adventurous  Bozzy, 

Bold  rival  of  Sir  John  and  Dame  Piozzi; 

Heavens!  with  what  laurels  shall  thy  head  be  crown'd! 

A  grove,  a  forest,  shall  thy  ears  surround! 

Yes!  whilst  the  Rambler  shall  a  comet  blaze, 

And  gild  a  world  of  darkness  with  his  rays, 

Thee,  too,  that  world  with  wonderment  shall  hail, 

A  lively,  bouacii-g  cracker  at  hi*  tail! 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  229 

writers  of  eminence  were  to  be  sought  for  the  various  depart- 
ments of  science.  Goldsmith  was  to  edit  the  whole.  An  un- 
dertaking of  this  kind,  while  it  did  not  incessantly  task  and 
exhaust  his  inventive  powers  by  original  composition,  would 
give  agreeable  and  profitable  exercise  to  his  taste  and  judg- 
ment in  selecting,  compiling,  and  arranging,  and  he  calculated 
to  diffuse  over  the  whole  the  acknowledged  graces  of  his  style. 

He  drew  up  a  prospectus  of  the  plan,  which  is  said  by  Bishop 
Percy,  who  saw  it,  to  have  been  written  with  uncommon  ability, 
and  to  have  had  that  perspicuity  and  elegance  for  which  his 
writings  are  remarkable.  This  paper,  unfortunately,  is  no 
longer  in  existence. 

Goldsmith's  expectations,  always  sanguine  respecting  any 
new  plan,  were  raised  to  an  extraordinary  height  by  the  pres- 
ent project ;  and  well  they  might  be,  when  we  consider  the 
powerful  coadjutors  already  pledged.  They  were  doomed, 
however,  to  complete  disappointment.  Davies,  the  bibliopole 
of  Russell  Street,  lets  us  into  the  secret  of  this  failure.  "  The 
booksellers,"  said  he,  "notwithstanding  they  had  a  very  good 
opinion  of  his  abilities,  yet  were  startled  at  the  bulk,  impor- 
tance, and  expense  of  so  great  an  undertaking,  the  fate  of 
which  was  to  depend  upon  the  industry  of  a  man  with  whose 
indolence  of  temper  and  method  of  procrastination  they  had 
long  been  acquainted." 

Goldsmith  certainly  gave  reason  for  some  such  distrust  by 
the  heedlessness  with  which  he  conducted  his  literary  under- 
takings. Those  unfinished,  but  paid  for,  would  be  suspended 
to  make  way  for  some  job  that  was  to  provide  for  present 
necessities.  Those  thus  hastily  taken  up  would  be  as  hastily 
executed,  and  the  whole,  however  pressing,  would  be  shoved 
aside  and  left  "at  loose  ends,"  on  some  sudden  call  to  social 
enjoyment  or  recreation. 

Cradock  tells  us  that  on  one  occasion,  when  Goldsmith  was 
hard  at  work  on  his  Natural  History,  he  sent  to  Dr.  Percy  and 
himself,  entreating  them  to  finish  some  pages  of  his  work 
which  lay  upon  his  table,  and  for  which  the  press  was  urgent, 
he  being  detained  by  other  engagements  at  Windsor.  They 
met  by  appointment  at  his  chambers  in  the  Temple,  where  they 
found  every  thing  in  disorder,  and  costly  books  lying  scattered 
about  on  the  tables  and  on  the  floor ;  many  of  the  books  on 
natural  history  which  he  had  recently  consulted  lay  open 
among  uncorrected  proof-sheets.  The  subject  in  hand,  and 
from  which  he  had  suddenly  broken  off,  related  to  birds. 
"  Do  you  know  any  thing  about  birds?  "  asked  Dr.  Percy,  smil- 


230  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

ing.  "  Not  an  atom,"  replied  Cradock  ;  "do  you?"  "Not 
I !  I  scarcely  know  a  goose  from  a  swan  :  however,  let  us  try 
what  we  can  do. ' '  They  set  to  work  and  completed  their  friendly 
task.  Goldsmith,  however,  when  he  came  to  revise  it,  made 
such  alterations  that  they  could  neither  of  them  recognize  their 
own  share.  The  engagement  at  Windsor,  which  had  thus 
caused  Goldsmith  to  break  off  suddenly  from  his  multifarious 
engagements,  was  a  party  of  pleasure  with  some  literary  ladies. 
Another  anecdote  was  current,  illustrative  of  the  carelessness 
with  which  he  executed  works  requiring  accuracy  and  re- 
searcho  Qn  the  22d  of  June  he  had  received  payment  in  ad- 
vance for  a  Grecian  History  in  two  volumes,  though  only  one 
was  finished.  As  he  was  pushing  on  doggedly  at  the  second 
volume,  Gibbon,  the  historian,  called  in.  "  You  are  the  man 
of  all  others  I  wish  to  see,"  cried  the  poet,  glad  to  be  saved  the 
troublf  of  reference  to  his  books.  "  What  was  the  name  of 
that  Indian  king  who  gave  Alexander  the  Great  so  much 
trouble?"  "  Montezuma,"  replied  Gibbon,  sportively.  The 
heedless  author  was  about  committing  the  name  to  paper  with- 
out reflection,  when  Gibbon  pretended  to  recollect  himself,  and 
gave  the  true  name,  Porus. 

This  story,  very  probably,  was  a  sportive  exaggeration  ;  but 
it  was  a  multiplicity  of  anecdotes  Hike  this  and  the  preceding 
one,  some  true  and  some  false,  which  had  impaired  the  confi- 
dence of  booksellers  in  Goldsmith,  as  a  man  to  be  relied  on  for 
a  task  requiring  wide  and  accurate  research,  and  close  and 
long-continued  application.  -The  project  of  the  Universal 
Dictionary,  therefore,  met  with  no  encouragement,  and  fell 
through. 

The  failure  of  this  scheme,  on  which  he  had  built  such  spa- 
cious hopes,  sank  deep  into  Goldsmith's  heart.  He  was  still 
further  grieved  and  mortified  by  the  failure  of  an  effort  made 
by  some  of  his  friends  to  obtain  for  him  a  pension  from  gov- 
ernment. There  had  been  a  talk  of  the  disposition  of  the  min- 
istry to  extend  the  bounty  of  the  crown  to  distinguished  literary 
men  in  pecuniary  difficulty,  without  regard  to  their  political  creed  : 
when  the  merits  and  claims  of  Goldsmith,  however,  were  laid 
before  them,  they  met  no  favor.  The  sin  of  sturdy  independ- 
ence lay  at  his  door.  He  had  refused  to  become  a  ministerial 
hack  when  offered  a  carte  blanche  by  Parson  Scott,  the  cabinet 
emissary.  Tho  T7ondering  parson  had  left  him  in  poverty  and 
"his  garret,"  and  there  the  ministry  were  disposed  to  suffer 
him  to  remain. 

In  the  mean  tune  Dr.  Beattie  comes  out  with  his  "  Essay  on 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  231 

Truth,"  and  all  the  orthodox  world  are  thrown  into  a  paroxysm 
of  contagious  ecstasy.  He  is  cried  up  as  the  great  champion 
of  Christianity  against  the  attacks  of  modern  philosophers  and 
infidels ;  he  is  feted  and  flattered  in  every  way.  He  receives 
at  Oxford  the  honorary  degree  of  doctor  of  civil  law,  at  the 
same  time  with  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  The  king  sends  for  him, 
praises  his  "Essay,"  and  gives  him  a  pension  of  two  hundred 
pounds. 

Goldsmith  feels  more  acutely  the  denial  of  a  pension  to  him- 
self when  one  has  thus  been  given  unsolicited  to  a  man  he 
might  without  vanity  consider  so  much  his  inferior.  He  was 
not  one  to  conceal  his  feelings.  "Here's  such  a  stir,"  said 
he  one  day  at  Thrale's  table,  "  about  a  fellow  that  has  written 
one  book,  and  I  have  written  so  many  !  " 

"Ah,  Doctor!"  exclaimed  Johnson,  in  one  of  his  caustic 
moods,  "  there  go  two  and  forty  sixpences,  you  know,  to  one 
guinea."  This  is  one  of  the  cuts  at  poor  Goldsmith  in  which 
Johnson  went  contrary  to  head  and  heart  in  his  love  for  say- 
ing what  is  called  a  "good  thing."  No  one  knew  better  than 
himself  the  comparative  superiority  of  the  writings  of  Gold- 
smith ;  but  the  jingle  of  the  sixpences  and  the  guinea  was  not 
to  be  resisted. 

"Everybody,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Thrale,  "loves  Dr.  Beattie, 
but  Goldsmith,  who  says  he  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  so  much 
applause  as  they  all  bestow  upon  him.  Did  he  not  tell  us 
so  himself  no  one  would  believe  he  was  so  exceedingly  ill- 
natured." 

He  told  them  so  himself  because  he  was  too  open  and  unre- 
served to  disguise  his  feelings,  and  because  he  really  consid- 
ered the  praise  lavished  on  Beattie  extravagant,-  as  in  fact  it 
was.  It  was  all,  of  course,  set  down  to  sheer  envy  and  un- 
charitableness.  To  add  to  his  annoyance,  he  found  his  friend, 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  joining  in  the  universal  adulation.  He 
had  painted  a  full-length  portrait  of  Beattie  decked  in  the  doc- 
tor's robes  in  which  he  had  figured  at  Oxford,  with  the  "  Essay 
on  Truth ' '  under  his  arm  and  the  angel  of  truth  at  his  side, 
while  Voltaire  figured  as  one  of  the  demons  of  infidelity,  soph- 
istry, and  falsehood,  driven  into  utter  darkness. 

Goldsmith  had  known  Voltaire  in  early  life  ;  he  had  been  his 
admirer  and  his  biographer ;  he  grieved  to  find  him  receiving 
such  an  insult  from  the  classic  pencil  of  his  friend.  "It  is 
unworthy  of  you,"  said  he  to  Sir  Joshua,  "  to  debase  so  high  a 
genius  as  Voltaire  before  so  mean  a  writer  as  Beattie.  Beattie 
and  his  book  will  be  forgotten  in  ten  years,  while  Voltaire's 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


fame  will  last  forever.  Take  care  it  does  not  perpetuate  this 
picture  to  the  shame  of  such  a  man  as  you."  This  noble  and 
high-minded  rebuke  is  the  only  instance  on  record  of  any  re- 
proachful words  between  the  poet  and  the  painter ;  and  we  are 
happy  to  find  that  it  did  not  destroy  the  harmony  of  their 
intercourse. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

TOIL   WITHOUT   HOPE  —  THE    POET   IN   THE    GREEN-ROOM  —  IN   THE 

FLOWER  GARDEN  —  AT  VAUXHALL DISSIPATION  WITHOUT  GAY- 

ETY CRADOCK  IN   TOWN FRIENDLY   SYMPATHY  —  A    PARTING 

SCENE  —  AN  INVITATION  TO  PLEASURE. 

THWARTED  in  the  plans  and  disappointed  in  the  hopes  which 
had  recently  cheered  and  animated  him,  Goldsmith  found  the 
labor  at  his  half- finished  tasks  doubly  irksome  from  the  con- 
sciousness that  the  completion  of  them  could  not  relieve  him 
from  his  pecuniary  embarrassments.  His  impaired  health, 
also,  rendered  him  less  capable  than  formerly  of  sedentary 
application,  and  continual  perplexities  disturbed  the  flow  of 
thought  necessary  for  original  composition.  He  lost  his  usual 
gayety  and  good-humor,  and  became,  at  times,  peevish  and 
irritable.  Too  proud  of  spirit  to  seek  sympathy  or  relief  from 
his  friends,  for  the  pecuniary  difficulties  he  had  brought  upon 
himself  by  his  errors  and  extravagance ;  and  unwilling,  per- 
haps, to  make  known  their  amount,  he  buried  his  cares  and 
anxieties  in  his  own  bosom,  and  endeavored  in  company  to 
keep  up  his  usual  air  of  gayety  and  unconcern.  This  gave  his 
conduct  an  appearance  of  fitfulness  and  caprice,  varying  sud- 
denly from  moodiness  to  mirth,  and  from  silent  gravity  to 
shallow  laughter ;  causing  surprise  and  ridicule  in  those  who 
were  not  aware  of  the  sickness  of  heart  which  lay  beneath. 

His  poetical  reputation,  too,  was  sometimes  a  disadvantage 
to  him  ;  it  drew  upon  him  a  notoriety  which  he  was  not  always 
in  the  mood  or  the  vein  to  act  up  to.  "  Good  heavens,  Mr. 
Foote,"  exclaimed  an  actress  at  the  Haymarket  theatre,  "  what 
a  humdrum  kind  of  man  Dr.  Goldsmith  appears  in  our  green- 
room compared  with  the  figure  he  makes  in  his  poetry !  "  "  The 
reason  of  that,  madam,"  replied  Foote,  "is  because  the  muses 
are  better  company  than  the  players." 

Beauclerc's  letters  to  his  friend,  Lord  Charlemont,  who  was 
absent  in  Ireland,  give  us  now  and  then  an  indication  of  the 


OLlVElt  GOLDSMITH.  233 

whereabout  of  the  poet  during  the  present  year.  "  I  have 
been  but  once  to  the  club  since  you  left  England,"  writes  he ; 
"  we  were  entertained,  as  usual,  with  Goldsmith's  absurdity." 
With  Beauclerc  every  thing  was  absurd  that  was  not  polished 
and  pointed.  In  another  letter  he  threatens,  unless  Lord 
Charlemont  returns  to  England,  to  bring  over  the  whole  club, 
and  let  them  loose  upon  him  to  drive  him  home  by  their  pecul- 
iar habits  of  annoyance  —  Johnson  shall  spoil  his  books  ;  Gold- 
smith shall  putt  his  flowers;  and  last,  and  most  intolerable  of 
all,  Boswell  shall  —  talk  to  him.  It  would  appear  that  the  poet, 
who  had  a  passion  for  flowers,  was  apt  to  pass  much  of  his 
time  in  the  garden  when  on  a  visit  to  a  country  seat,  much  to 
the  detriment  of  the  flower-beds  and  the  despair  of  the  gar- 
dener. 

The  summer  wore  heavily  away  with  Goldsmith.  He  had 
not  his  usual  solace  of  a  country  retreat ;  his  health  was  im- 
paired and  his  spirits  depressed.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who 
perceived  the  state  of  his  mind,  kindly  gave  him  much  of  his 
company.  In  the  course  of  their  interchange  of  thought, 
Goldsmith  suggested  to  him  the  story  of  Ugolino,  as  a  subject 
for  his  pencil.  The  painting  founded  on  it  remains  a  memento 
of  their  friendship. 

On  the  4th  of  August  we  find  them  together  at  Vauxhall ;  at 
that  time  a  place  in  high  vogue,  and  which  had  once  been  to 
Goldsmith  a  scene  of  Oriental  splendor  and  delight.  We  have, 
in  fact,  in  the  "  Citizen  of  the  World,"  a  picture  of  it  as  it  had 
struck  him  in  former  years  and  in  his  happier  moods.  "  Upon 
entering  the  gardens,"  says  the  Chinese  philosopher,  "  I  found 
every  sense  occupied  with  more  than  expected  pleasure ;  the 
lights  everywhere  glimmering  through  the  scarcely-moving 
trees ;  the  full-bodied  concert  bursting  on  the  stillness  of  the 
night ;  the  natural  concert  of  the  birds  in  the  more  retired 
part  of  the  grove,  vying  with  that  which  was  formed  by  art ; 
the  company  gayly  dressed,  looking  satisfaction,  and  the  tables 
spread  with  various  delicacies,  all  conspired  to  fill  my  imagi- 
nation with  the  visionary  happiness  of  the  Arabian  lawgiver, 
and  lifted  me  into  an  ecstasy  of  admiration."  1 

Every  thing  now,  however,  is  seen  with  different  eyes ;  with 
him  it  is  dissipation  without  pleasure ;  and  he  finds  it  impos- 
sible any  longer,  by  mingling  in  the  gay  and  giddy  throng  of 
apparently  prosperous  and  happy  beings,  to  escape  from  the 
carking  care  which  is  clinging  to  his  heart. 

1  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  zxi. 


234  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

His  kind  friend,  Cradock,  came  up  to  town  toward  autumn, 
when  all  the  fashionable  world  was  in  the  country,  to  give  his 
wife  the  benefit  of  a  skilful  dentist.  He  took  lodgings  in  Nor- 
folk Street,  to  be  in  Goldsmith's  neighborhood,  and  passed 
most  of  his  mornings  with  him.  "I  found  him,"  he  says, 
"  much  altered  and  at  times  very  low.  He  wished  me  to  look 
over  and  revise  some  of  his  works  ;  but,  with  a  select  friend  or 
two,  I  was  more  pressing  that  he  should  publish  by  subscription 
'iis  two  celebrated  poems  of  the  '  Traveller '  and  the  '  Deserted 
Village,'  with  notes."  The  idea  of  Cradock  was,  that  the  sub- 
scription would  enable  wealthy  persons,  favorable  to  Gold- 
smith, to  contribute  to  his  pecuniary  relief  without  wounding 
his  pride.  "  Goldsmith,"  said  he,  "  readily  gave  up  to  me  his 
private  copies,  and  said,  '  Pray  do  what  you  please  with  them.' 
But  whilst  he  sat  near  me,  he  rather  submitted  to  than  encore- 
aged  my  zealous  proceedings." 

"I  one  morning  called  upon  him,  however,  and  tound  him 
infinitely  better  than  I  had  expected  ;  and,  in  a  kind  of  exulting 
style,  he  exclaimed,  '  Here  are  some  of  the  best  of  my  prose 
writings  ;  I  have  been  hard  at  work  since  midnight,  and  I  desire 
you  to  examine  them.'  '  These,'  said  I,  '  are  excellent  indeed.' 
'They  are,'  replied  he,  '  intended  as  an  introduction  to  a  body 
of  arts  and  sciences.'  " 

Poor  Goldsmith  was,  in  fact,  gathering  together  the  frag- 
ments of  his  shipwreck  ;  the  notes  and  essays,  and  memoranda 
collected  for  his  dictionary,  and  proposed  to  found  on  them  a 
work  in  two  volumes,  to  be  entitled  "A  Survey  of  Experi- 
mental Philosophy." 

The  plan  of  the  subscription  came  to  nothing,  and  the  pro- 
jected survey  never  was  executed.  The  head  might  yet  devise, 
but  the  heart  was  failing  him  ;  his  talent  at  hoping,  which  gave 
him  buoyancy  to  carry  out  his  enterprises,  was  almost  at  an 
end. 

Cradock's  farewell  scene  with  him  is  told  in  a  simple  but 
-ouching  manner. 

"  The  day  before  I  was  to  set  out  for  Leicestershire,  I  insisted 
upon  his  dining  with  us.  He  replied,  '  I  will,  but  on  one  con- 
dition, that  you  will  not  ask  me  to  eat  any  thing.'  *  Nay,'  said 
I,  '  this  answer  is  absolutely  unkind,  for  I  had  hoped,  as  we  are 
supplied  from  the  Crown  and  Anchor,  that  you  would  have 
named  something  you  might  have  relished.'  '  Well,'  was  the 
reply,  '  if  you  will  but  explain  it  to  Mrs.  Cradock,  I  will  cer- 
tainly wait  upon  you.' 

"  The  doctor  found,  as  usual,  at  my  apartments,  newspapers 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  235 

and  pamphlets,  and  with  a  pen  and  ink  he  amused  himself  as 
well  as  he  could.  I  had  ordered  from  the  tavern  some  fish,  a 
roasted  joint  of  lamb,  and  a  tart ;  and  the  doctor  either  sat 
down  or  walked  about  just  as  he  pleased.  After  dinner  he  took 
some  wine  with  biscuits ;  but  I  was  obliged  soon  to  leave  him 
for  a  while,  as  I  had  matters  to  settle  prior  to  my  next  day's 
journey.  On  my  return  coffee  was  ready,  and  the  doctor  ap- 
peared more  cheerful  (for  Mrs.  Cradock  was  always  rather  a 
favorite  with  him),  and  in  the  evening  he  endeavored  to  talk 
and  remark  as  usual,  but  all  was  forced.  He  staid  till  mid- 
night, and  I  insisted  on  seeing  him  safe  home,  and  we  most 
cordially  shook  hands  at  the  Temple  gate."  Cradock  little 
thought  that  this  was  to  be  their  final  parting.  He  looked 
back  to  it  with  mournful  recollections  in  after  years,  and 
lamented  that  he  had  not  remained  longer  in  town  at  every 
inconvenience,  to  solace  the  poor  broken-spirited  poet. 

The  latter  continued  in  town  all  the  autumn.  At  the  open- 
ing of  the  Opera  House,  on  the  20th  of  November,  Mrs.  Yates, 
an  actress  whom  he  held  in  great  esteem,  delivered  a  poetical 
exordium  of  his  composition.  Beauclerc,  in  a  letter  to  Lord 
Charlemont,  pronounced  it  very  good,  and  predicted  that  it 
would  soon  be  in  all  the  papers.  It  does  not  appear,  however, 
to  have  been  ever  published.  In  his  fitful  state  of  mind  Gold- 
smith may  have  taken  no  care  about  it,  and  thus  it  has  been 
lost  to  the  world,  although  it  was  received  with  great  applause 
by  a  crowded  and  brilliant  audience. 

A  gleam  of  sunshine  breaks  through  the  gloom  that  was 
gathering  over  the  poet.  Toward  the  end  of  the  year  he  re- 
ceives another  Christmas  invitation  to  Barton.  A  country 
Christmas !  with  all  the  cordiality  of  the  fireside  circle,  and  the 
joyous  revelry  of  the  oaken  hall  —  what  a  contrast  to  the  lone- 
liness of  a  bachelor's  chambers  in  the  Temple  !  It  is  not  to  be 
resisted.  But  how  is  poor  Goldsmith  to  raise  the  ways  and 
means  ?  His  purse  is  empty ;  his  booksellers  are  already  in 
advance  to  him.  As  a  last  resource,  he  applies  to  Garrick. 
Their  mutual  intimacy  at  Barton  may  have  suggested  him  as  an 
alternative.  The  old  loan  of  forty  pounds  has  never  been  paid  ; 
and  Newbery's  note,  pledged  as  a  security,  has  never  been 
taken  up.  An  additional  loan  of  sixty  pounds  is  now  asked 
for,  thus  increasing  the  loan  to  one  hundred  ;  to  insure  the 
payment,  he  now  offers,  besides  Newbery's  note,  the  transfer 
of  the  comedy  of  the  Good-Natured  Man  to  Drury  Lane  with 
such  alterations  as  Garrick  may  suggest.  Garrick,  in  reply, 
evades  the  offer  of  the  altered  comedy,  alludes  significantly  to 


236  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

a  new  one  which  Goldsmith  had  talked  of  writing  for  him, 
and  offers  to  furnish  the  money  required  on  his  own  accept- 
ance. 

The  reply  of  Goldsmith  bespeaks  a  heart  brimful  of  gratitude 
and  overflowing  with  fond  anticipations  of  Barton  and  the  smiles 
of  its  fair  residents.  "  My  dear  friend,"  writes  he,  "I  thank 
you.  I  wish  I  could  do  something  to  serve  you.  I  shall  have 
a  comedy  for  you  in  a  season,  or  two  at  farthest,  that  I  believe 
will  be  worth  your  acceptance,  for  I  fancy  I  will  make  it  a  fine 
thing.  You  shall  have  the  refusal.  ...  I  will  draw  upon  you 
one  month  after  date  for  sixty  pounds,  and  your  acceptance  will 
be  ready  money,  part  of  which  I  want  to  go  down  to  Barton  with, 
May  God  preserve  my  honest  little  man,  for  he  has  my  heart. 
Ever, 

"OLIVER  GOLDSMITH." 

And  having  thus  scrambled  together  a  little  pocket  money, 
by  hard  contrivance,  poor  Goldsmith  turns  his  back  upon  care 
and  trouble,  and  Temple  quarters,  to  forget  for  a  time  his  deso- 
late bachelorhood  in  the  family  circle  and  a  Christmas  fireside 
at  Barton. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A   RETURN   TO    DRUDGERY  —  FORCED     GAYETY RETREAT    TO    THE 

COUNTRY THE    POEM    OF    RETALIATION PORTRAIT     OF     GAR- 
RICK  —  OF  GOLDSMITH  —  OF    REYNOLDS ILLNESS  OF   THE  POET 

—  HIS   DEATH GRIEF    OF    HIS    FRIENDS A    LAST   WORD     RE- 
SPECTING   THE   JESSAMY   BRIDE. 

THE  Barton  festivities  are  over ;  Christmas,  with  all  its  home- 
I'elt  revelry  of  the  heart,  has  passed  like  a  dream  ;  the  Jessamy 
Bride  has  beamed  her  last  smile  upon  the  poor  poet,  and  the 
early  part  of  1774  finds  him  in  his  now  dreary  bachelor  abode 
in  the  Temple,  toiling  fitfully  and  hopelessly  at  a  multiplicity  of 
tasks.  His  "Animated  Nature,"  so  long  delayed,  so  often 
interrupted,  is  at  length  announced  for  publication,  though  it 
has  yet  to  receive  a  few  finishing  touches.  He  is  preparing  a 
third  "History  of  England,"  to  be  compressed  and  condensed 
in  one  volume,  for  the  use  of  schools.  He  is  revising  his  "  In- 
quiry into  Polite  Learning,"  for  which  he  receives  the  pittance 
of  five  guineas,  much  needed  in  his  present  scantiness  of  purse ; 
he  is  arranging  his  "  Survey  of  Experimental  Philosophy,"  and 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  237 

he  is  translating  the  "  Comic  Romance  of  Scarron."  Such  is  a 
part  of  the  various  labors  of  a  drudging,  depressing  kind,  by 
which  his  head  is  made  weary  and  his  heart  faint.  "  If  there 
is  a  mental  drudgery,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "which  lowers 
the  spirits  and  lacerates  the  nerves,  like  the  toil  of  a  slave,  it  is 
that  which  is  exacted  by  literary  composition,  when  the  heart  is 
not  in  unison  with  the  work  upon  which  the  head  is  employed. 
Add  to  the  unhappy  author's  task  sickness,  sorrow,  or  the  press- 
ure of  unfavorable  circumstances,  and  the  labor  of  the  bonds- 
man becomes  light  in  comparison."  Goldsmith  again  makes 
an  effort  to  rally  his  spirits  by  going  into  gay  society.  "  Our 
club,"  writes  Beauclerc  to  Charlemont,  on  the  12th  of  February, 
"  has  dwindled  away  to  nothing.  Sir  Joshua  and  Goldsmith 
have  got  into  such  a  round  of  pleasures  that  they  have  no  time." 
This  shows  how  little  Beauclerc  was  the  companion  of  the  poet's 
mind,  or  could  judge  of  him  below  the  surface.  Reynolds,  the 
kind  participator  in  joyless  dissipation,  could  have  told  a  dif- 
ferent story  of  his  companion's  heart-sick  gayety. 

In  this  forced  mood  Goldsmith  gave  entertainments  in  his 
chambers  in  the  Temple  ;  the  last  of  which  was  a  dinner  to  John- 
son, Reynolds,  and  others  of  his  intimates,  who  partook  with 
sorrow  and  reluctance  of  his  imprudent  hospitality.  The  first 
course  vexed  them  by  its  needless  profusion.  When  a  second, 
equally  extravagant,  was  served  up,  Johnson  and  Reynolds  de- 
clined to  partake  of  it ;  the  rest  of  the  company,  understanding 
their  motives,  followed  their  example,  and  the  dishes  went  from 
the  table  untasted.  Goldsmith  felt  sensibly  this  silent  and  well- 
intended  rebuke. 

The  gayeties  of  society,  however,  cannot  medicine  for  any 
length  of  time  a  mind  diseased.  Wearied  by  the  distractions 
and  harassed  by  the  expenses  of  a  town  life,  which  he  had  not 
the  discretion  to  regulate,  Goldsmith  took  the  resolution,  too 
tardily  adopted,  of  retiring  to  the  serene  quiet  and  cheap  and 
healthful  pleasures  of  the  country,  and  of  passing  only  two 
months  of  the  year  in  London.  He  accordingly  made  arrange- 
ments to  sell  his  right  in  the  Temple  chambers,  and  in  the 
month  of  March  retired  to  his  country  quarters  at  Hyde,  there 
to  devote  himself  to  toil.  At  this  dispirited  juncture  when  in- 
spiration seemed  to  be  at  an  end,  and  the  poetic  fire  extin- 
guished, a  spark  fell  on  his  combustible  imagination  and  set  it 
in  a  blaze. 

He  belonged  to  a  temporary  association  of  men  of  talent, 
some  of  them  members  of  the  Literary  Club,  who  dined  together 
occasionally  at  the  St.  James's  Coffee-house.  At  these  dinners, 


238  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

as  usual,  he  was  one  of  the  last  to  arrive.  On  one  occasion, 
when  he  was  more  dilatory  than  usual,  a  whim  seized  the  com- 
pany to  write  epitaphs  on  him,  as  "  The  late  Dr.  Goldsmith," 
and  several  were  thrown  off  in  a  playful  vein,  hitting  off  his 
peculiarities.  The  only  one  extant  was  written  by  Garrick,  and 
has  been  preserved,  very  probably,  by  its  pungency : 

"  Here  lies  poor  Goldsmith,  for  shortness  called  Noll, 
Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  but  talked  like  poor  poll." 

Goldsmith  did  not  relish  the  sarcasm,  especially  as  coming 
from  such  a  quarter.  He  was  not  very  ready  at  repartee ;  but 
he  took  his  time,  and  in  the  interval  of  his  various  tasks,  con- 
cocted a  series  of  epigrammatic  sketches,  under  the  title  of  Re- 
taliation, in  which  the  characters  of  his  distinguished  intimates 
were  admirably  hit  off,  with  a  mixture  of  generous  praise  and 
good-humored  raillery.  In  fact  the  poem  for  its  graphic  truth  ; 
its  nice  discrimination  ;  its  terse  good  sense,  and  its  shrewd 
knowledge  of  the  world,  must  have  electrified  the  club  almost 
as  much  as  the  first  appearance  of  "The  Traveller,"  and  let 
them  still  deeper  into  the  character  and  talents  of  the  man  they 
had  been  accustomed  to  consider  as  their  butt.  Retaliation,  in 
a  word,  closed  his  accounts  with  the  club,  and  balanced  all  his 
previous  deficiencies. 

The  portrait  of  David  Garrick  is  one  of  the  most  elaborate  in 
the  poem.  When  the  poet  came  to  touch  it  off,  he  had  some 
lurking  piques  to  gratify,  which  the  recent  attack  had  revived. 
He  may  have  forgotten  David's  cavalier  treatment  of  him  in 
the  early  days  of  his  comparative  obscurity ;  he  may  have  for- 
given his  refusal  of  his  plays  ;  but  Garrick  had  been  capricious 
in  his  conduct  in  the  times  of  their  recent  intercourse ;  some- 
times treating  him  with  gross  familiarity,  at  other  times  affecting 
dignity  and  reserve,  and  assuming  airs  of  superiority  ;  frequently 
he  had  been  facetious  and  witty  in  company  at  his  expense,  and 
lastly  he  had  been  guilty  of  the  couplet  just  quoted.  Goldsmith, 
therefore,  touched  off  the  lights  and  shadows  of  his  character 
with  a  free  hand,  and,  at  the  same  time,  gave  a  side  hit  at  his 
old  rival,  Kelly,  and  his  critical  persecutor,  Kenrick,  in  making 
them  sycophantic  satellites  of  the  actor.  Goldsmith,  however, 
was  void  of  gall,  even  in  his  revenge,  and  his  very  satire  was 
more  humorous  than  caustic : 

"Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  him  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man; 
As  an  actor,  confess'd  without  rival  to  shine; 
Aa  a  wit,  If  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line: 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  239 

Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 

The  man  had  bis  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 

Like  an  ill  judging  beauty,  his  colors  he  spread, 

And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 

On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting; 

'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 

He  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day  : 

Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 

If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick : 

He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 

For  he  knew,  when  he  pleased,  he  could  whistle  them  back. 

Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallow'd  what  came, 

And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame; 

Till  his  relish,  grown  callous  almost  to  disease, 

Who  pepper'd  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 

But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind, 

If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 

Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  and  Woodfalls  so  grave, 

What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you  gave) 

How  did  Grub  Street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  raised, 

While  he  was  be-Rosciused  and  you  were  be-praised  1 

But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 

To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies : 

Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will; 

Old  Shakspeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 

And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above." 

This  portion  of  Retaliation  soon  brought  a  retort  from  Gar- 
rick,  which  we  insert,  as  giving  something  of  a  likeness  of  Gold- 
smith, though  in  broad  caricature : 

"  Here,  Hermes,  says  Jove,  who  with  nectar  was  mellow, 
Go  fetch  me  some  clay —  I  will  make  an  odd  fellow  : 
Right  and  wrong  shall  be  jumbled,  much  gold  and  some  dross, 
Without  cause  be  he  pleased,  without  cause  be  he  cross; 
Be  sure,  as  I  work,  to  throw  in  contradictions, 
A  great  love  of  truth,  yet  a  mind  turn'd  to  fictions ; 
Now  mix  these  ingredients,  which,  warm'd  in  the  baking 
Tnrn'd  to  learning  and  gaming,  religion,  and  raking. 
With  the  love  of  a  wench,  let  his  writings  be  chaste ; 
Tip  his  tongue  with  strange  matters,  his  lips  with  fine  taste; 
That  the  rake  and  the  poet,  o'er  all  may  prevail, 
Set  fire  to  the  head  and  set  fire  to  the  tail; 
For  the  joy  of  each  sex  on  the  world  I'll  bestow  it, 
This  scholar,  rake,  Christian,  dupe,  gamester,  and  poet. 
Though  a  mixture  so  odd,  he  shall  merit  great  fame, 
And  among  brother  mortals  be  Goldsmith  his  name; 
When  on  earth  this  strange  meteor  no  more  shall  appear, 
You,  Hermet,  shall  fetch  him,  to  make  us  sport  here." 


240  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

The  charge  of  raking,  so  repeatedly  advanced  in  the  fore- 
going lines,  must  be  considered  a  sportive  one,  founded,  perhaps, 
on  an  incident  or  two  within  Garrick's  knowledge,  but  not  borne 
out  by  the  course  of  Goldsmith's  life.  He  seems  to  have  had  a 
tender  sentiment  for  the  sex,  but  perfectly  free  from  libertinism. 
Neither  was  he  an  habitual  gamester.  The  strictest  scrutiny 
has  detected  no  settled  vice  of  the  kind.  He  was  fond  of  a 
game  of  cards,  but  an  unskilful  and  careless  player.  Cards  in 
those  days  were  universally  introduced  into  society.  High  play 
was,  in  fact,  a  fashionable  amusement,  as  at  one  time  was  deep 
drinking ;  and  a  man  might  occasionally  lose  large  sums,  and 
be  beguiled  into  deep  potations,  without  incurring  the  character 
of  a  gamester  or  a  drunkard.  Poor  Goldsmith,  on  his  advent 
into  high  society,  assumed  fine  notions  with  fine  clothes ;  he 
was  thrown  occasionally  among  high  players,  men  of  fortune 
who  could  sport  their  cool  hundreds  as  carelessly  as  his  early 
comrades  at  Ballymahon  could  their  half-crowns.  Being  at  all 
times  magnificent  in  money  matters,  he  may  have  played  with 
them  in  their  own  way,  without  considering  that  what  was  sport 
to  them,  to  him  was  ruin.  Indeed,  part  of  his  financial  embar- 
rassments may  have  arisen  from  losses  of  the  kind,  incurred 
inadvertently,  not  in  the  indulgence  of  a  habit.  u  I  do  not 
believe  Goldsmith  to  have  deserved  the  name  of  gamester," 
said  one  of  his  contemporaries ;  "he  liked  cards  very  well,  as 
other  people  do,  and  lost  and  won  occasionally  ;  but  as  far  as  I 
saw  or  heard,  and  I  had  many  opportunities  of  hearing,  never 
any  considerable  sum.  If  he  gamed  with  any  one,  it  was  prob- 
ably with  Beauclerc,  but  I  do  not  know  that  such  was  the  case." 

Retaliation,  as  we  have  already  observed,  was  thrown  off  in 
parts,  at  intervals,  and  was  never  completed.  Some  characters, 
originally  intended  to  be  introduced,  remained  unattempted ; 
others  were  but  partially  sketched  —  such  was  the  one  of  Rey- 
nolds, the  friend  of  his  heart,  and  which  he  commenced  with  a 
felicity  which  makes  us  regret  that  it  should  remain  unfinished. 

"Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind. 
Hi?  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland; 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judged  without  skill  he  was  still  hard  of  hearing; 
When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet  and  only  took  snuff, 
By  flattery  unspoiled  "  — — 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  241 

The  friendly  portrait  stood  unfinished  on  the  easel ;  the  hand 
of  the  artist  had  failed !  An  access  of  a  local  complaint,  under 
which  he  had  suffered  for  some  time  past,  added  to  a  general 
prostration  of  health,  brought  Goldsmith  back  to  town  before 
he  had  well  settled  himself  in  the  country.  The  local  complaint 
subsided,  but  was  followed  by  a  low  nervous  fever.  He  was 
not  aware  of  his  critical  situation,  and  intended  to  be  at  the 
club  on  the  25th  of  March,  on  which  occasion  Charles  Fox,  Sir 
Charles  Bunbury  (one  of  the  Horneck  connection),  and  two 
other  new  members  were  to  be  present.  In  the  afternoon,  how- 
ever, he  felt  so  unwell  as  to  take  to  his  bed,  and  his  symptoms 
soon  acquired  sufficient  force  to  keep  him  there.  His  malady 
fluctuated  for  several  days,  and  hopes  were  entertained  of  his 
recovery,  but  they  proved  fallacious.  He  had  skilful  medical 
aid  and  faithful  nursing,  but  he  would  not  follow  the  advice  of 
his  physicians,  and  persisted  in  the  use  of  James's  powders, 
which  he  had  once  found  beneficial,  but  which  were  now  inju- 
rious to  him.  His  appetite  was  gone,  his  strength  failed  him, 
but  his  mind  remained  clear,  and  was  perhaps  too  active  for  his 
frame.  Anxieties  and  disappointments  which  had  previously 
sapped  his  constitution,  doubtless  aggravated  his  present  com« 
plaint  and  rendered  him  sleepless.  In  reply  to  an  inquiry  of 
his  physician,  he  acknowledged  that  his  mind  was  ill  at  ease. 
This  was  his  last  reply ;  he  was  too  weak  to  talk,  and  in  gen- 
eral took  no  notice  of  what  was  said  to  him.  He  sank  at  last 
into  a  deep  sleep,  and  it  was  hoped  a  favorable  crisis  had  ar- 
rived. He  awoke,  however,  in  strong  convulsions,  which  con- 
tinued without  intermission  until  he  expired,  on  the  fourth  of 
April,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  being  in  the  forty-sixth 
year  of  his  age. 

His  death  was  a  shock  to  the  literary  world,  and  a  deep  afflic- 
tion to  a  wide  circle  of  intimates  and  friends ;  for  with  all  his 
foibles  and  peculiarities,  he  was  fully  as  much  beloved  as  he 
was  admired.  Burke,  on  hearing  the  news,  burst  into  tears. 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  threw  by  his  pencil  for  the  day,  and 
grieved  more  than  he  had  done  in  times  of  great  family  distress. 
"  I  was  abroad  at  the  time  of  his  death,"  writes  Dr.  M'Donnell, 
the  youth  whom  when  in  distress  he  had  employed  as  an  aman- 
uensis, "  and  I  wept  bitterly  when  the  intelligence  first  reached 
me.  A  blank  came  over  my  heart  as  if  I  had  lost  one  of  my 
nearest  relatives,  and  was  followed  for  some  days  by  a  feeling 
of  despondency."  Johnson  felt  the  blow  deeply  and  gloomily. 
In  writing  some  time  afterward  to  Boswell,  he  observed,  "  Of 
poor  Dr.  Goldsmith  there  is  little  to  be  told  more  than  the  papers 


242  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

have  made  public.  He  died  of  a  fever,  made,  I  am  afraid, 
more  violent  by  uneasiness  of  mind.  His  debts  began  to  be 
heavy,  and  all  his  resources  were  exhausted.  Sir  Joshua  is  of 
opinion  that  he  owed  no  less  than  two  thousand  pounds.  Was 
ever  poet  so  trusted  before?  " 

Among  his  debts  were  seventy-nine  pounds  due  to  his  tailor, 
Mr.  William  Filby,  from  whom  he  had  received  a  new  suit  but 
a  few  days  before  his  death.  "My  father,"  said  the  younger 
Filby,  "  though  a  loser  to  that  amount,  attributed  no  blame  to 
Goldsmith ;  he  had  been  a  good  customer,  and  had  he  lived 
would  have  paid  every  farthing."  Others  of  his  tradespeople 
evinced  the  same  confidence  in  his  integrity,  notwithstanding 
his  heedlessness.  Two  sister  milliners  in  Temple  Lane,  who 
had  been  accustomed  to  deal  with  him,  were  concerned,  when 
told,  some  time  before  his  death,  of  his  pecuniary  embarrass- 
ments. "  Oh,  sir,"  said  they  to  Mr.  Cradock,  "  sooner  persuade 
him  to  let  us  work  for  him  gratis  than  apply  to  any  other ;  we 
are  sure  he  will  pay  us  when  he  can." 

On  the  stairs  of  his  apartment  there  was  the  lamentation  of 
the  old  and  infirm,  and  the  sobbing  of  women ;  poor  objects 
of  his  charity  to  whom  he  had  never  turned  a  deaf  ear,  even  when 
struggling  himself  with  poverty. 

But  there  was  one  mourner,  whose  enthusiasm  for  his  mem- 
ory, could  it  have  been  foreseen,  might  have  soothed  the  bitter- 
ness of  death.  After  the  coffin  had  been  screwed  down,  a  lock 
of  his  hair  was  requested  for  a  lady,  a  particular  friend,  who 
wished  to  preserve  it  as  a  remembrance.  It  was  the  beautiful 
Mary  Horneck  —  the  Jessamy  Bride.  The  coffin  was  opened 
again,  and  a  lock  of  hair  cut  off ;  which  she  treasured  to  her 
dying  day.  Poor  Goldsmith  !  could  he  have  foreseen  that  such 
a  memorial  of  him  was  to  be  thus  cherished  ! 

One  word  more  concerning  this  lady,  to  whom  we  have  so 
often  ventured  to  advert.  She  survived  almost  to  the  present 
day.  Hazlitt  met  her  at  Northcote's  painting-room,  about 
twenty  years  since,  as  Mrs.  Gwyn,  the  widow  of  a  General 
Gwyn  of  the  army.  She  was  at  that  time  upward  of  seventy 
years  of  age.  Still,  he  said,  she  was  beautiful,  beautiful  even 
In  years.  After  she  was  gone,  Hazlitt  remarked  how  handsome 
she  still  was.  "  I  do  not  know,"  said  Northcote,  "  why  she  is 
so  kind  as  to  come  to  see  me,  except  that  I  am  the  last  link 
in  the  chain  that  connects  her  with  all  those  she  most  esteemed 
when  young  —  Johnson,  Reynolds,  Goldsmith  —  and  remind  her 
of  the  most  delightful  period  of  her  life."  "  Not  only  so," 
observed  Hazlitt,  "  but  you  remember  what  she  was  at  twenty; 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  243 

and  you  thus  bring  back  to  her  the  triumphs  of  her  youth,— 
that  pride  of  beauty,  which  must  be  the  more  fondly  cherished 
as  it  has  no  external  vouchers,  and  lives  chiefly  in  the  bosom 
of  its  once  lovely  possessor.  In  her,  however,  the  Graces  had 
triumphed  over  time ;  she  was  one  of  Ninon  de  1'Enclos'  people, 
of  the  last  of  the  immortals.  I  could  almost  fancy  the  shade  of 
Goldsmith  in  the  room,  looking  round  with  complacency." 

The  Jessamy  Bride  survived  her  sister  upward  of  forty  years, 
and  died  in  1840,  within  a  few  days  of  completing  her  eighty- 
eighth  year.  "She  had  gone  through  all  the  stages  of  life," 
says  Northcote,  "and  had  lent  a  grace  to  each."  However 
gayly  she  may  have  sported  with  the  half-concealed  admiration 
of  the  poor  awkward  poet  in  the  heydey  of  her  youth  and 
beauty,  and  however  much  it  may  have  been  made  a  subject  of 
teasing  by  her  youthful  companions,  she  evidently  prided  her- 
self in  after  years  upon  having  been  an  object  of  his  affectionate 
regard :  it  certainly  rendered  her  interesting  throughout  life  in 
the  eyes  of  his  admirers,  and  has  hung  a  poetical  wreath  above 
her  grave. 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE    FUNERAL  —  THE    MONUMENT  —  THE    EPITAPH — CONCLUDING 
REMARKS. 

IN  the  warm  feeling  of  the  moment,  while  the  remains  of  the 
poet  were  scarce  cold,  it  was  determined  by  his  friends  to  honor 
them  by  a  public  funeral,  and  a  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
His  very  pall-bearers  were  designated :  Lord  Shelburne,  Lord 
Lowth,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds ;  the  Hon.  Mr.  Beauclerc,  Mr. 
Burke,  and  David  Garrick.  This  feeling  cooled  down,  how- 
ever, when  it  was  discovered  that  he  died  in  debt,  and  had  not 
left  wherewithal  to  pay  for  such  expensive  obsequies.  Five  days 
after  his  death,  therefore,  at  five  o'clock  of  Saturday  evening, 
the  9th  of  April,  he  was  privately  interred  in  the  burying-ground 
of  the  Temple  Church,  a  few  persons  attending  as  mourners, 
among  whom  we  do  not  find  specified  any  of  his  peculiar  and 
distinguished  friends.  The  chief  mourner  was  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds's  nephew,  Palmer,  afterward  Dean  of  Cashel.  One 
person,  however,  from  whom  it  was  but  little  to  be  expected, 
attended  the  funeral  and  evinced  real  sorrow  on  the  occasion. 
This  was  Hugh  Kelly,  once  the  dramatic  rival  of  the  deceased, 
aud  often,  it  is  said,  his  anonymous  assailant  in  the  newspapers. 
If  he  had  really  been  guilty  of  this  basest  of  literary  offences, 


244  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

he  was  punished  by  the  stings  of  remorse,  for  we  are  told  that 
he  shed  bitter  tears  over  the  grave  of  the  man  he  had  injured. 
His  tardy  atonement  only  provoked  the  lash  of  some  unknown 
satirist,  as  the  following  lines  will  show  : 

Hence  Kelly,  who  years,  without  honor  or  shame, 
Had  been  sticking  his  bodkin  in  Oliver's  fame, 
Who  thought,  like  the  Tartar,  by  this  to  inherit 
His  genius,  his  learning,  simplicity,  spirit; 
Now  sets  every  feature  to  weep  o'er  his  fate, 
And  acts  as  a  mourner  to  blubber  in  state." 

One  base  wretch  deserves  to  be  mentioned,  the  reptile  Ken- 
rick,  who,  after  having  repeatedly  slandered  Goldsmith,  while 
living,  had  the  audacity  to  insult  his  memory  when  dead.  The 
following  distich  is  sufficient  to  show  his  malignancy,  and  to 
hold  him  up  to  execration : 

"  By  his  own  art,  who  justly  died, 
A  blund'ring,  artless  suicide: 
Share,  earthworms,  share,  since  now  he's  dead, 
His  megrim,  maggot-bitten  head." 

This  scurrilous  epitaph  produced  a  burst  of  public  indignation 
that  awed  for  a  time  even  the  infamous  Keurick  into  silence 
On  the  other  hand,  the  press  teemed  with  tributes  in  verse  and 
prose  to  the  memory  of  the  deceased  ;  all  evincing  the  mingled 
feeling  of  admiration  for  the  author  and  affection  for  the  man. 

Not  long  after  his  death  the  Literary  Club  set  on  foot  a  sub- 
scription, and  raised  a  fund  to  erect  a  monument  to  his  mem- 
ory in  Westminster  Abbey.  It  was  executed  by  Nollekens, 
and  consisted  simply  of  a  bust  of  the  poet  in  profile,  in  high 
relief,  in  a  medallion,  and  was  placed  in  the  area  of  a  pointed 
arch,  over  the  south  door  in  Poets'  Corner,  between  the  monu- 
ments of  Gay  and  the  Duke  of  Argyle.  Johnson  furnished  a 
Latin  epitaph,  which  was  read  at  the  table  of  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds, where  several  members  of  the  club  and  other  friends  of 
the  deceased  were  present.  Though  considered  by  them  a 
masterly  composition,  they  thought  the  literary  character  of 
the  poet  not  defined  with  sufficient  exactness,  and  they  pre- 
ferred that  the  epitaph  should  be  in  English  rather  than  Latin, 
as  "  the  memory  of  so  eminent  an  English  writer  ought  to  be 
perpetuated  in  the  language  to  which  his  works  were  likely  to 
be  so  lasting  an  ornament." 

These  objections  were  reduced  to  writing,  to  be  respectfully 
submitted  to  Johnson,  but  such  was  the  awe  entertained  of  his 
frown,  that  every  one  shrank  from  putting  his  name  first  to 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  245 

the  instrument ;  whereupon  their  names  were  written  about  it  in 
a  circle,  making  what  mutinous  sailors  call  a  Round  Robin. 
Johnson  received  it  half  graciously,  half  grimly.  "He  was 
willing,"  he  said,  "  to  modify  the  sense  of  the  epitaph  in  any 
manner  the  gentleman  pleased;  but  he  never  would  consent 
to  disgrace  the  walls  of  Westminster  Abbey  with  an  English 
inscription."  Seeing  the  names  of  Dr.  Wharton  and  Edmund 
Burke  among  the  signers,  "  he  wondered,"  he  said,  "  that  Joe 
AVhartou,  a  scholar  by  profession,  should  be  such  a  fool ;  and 
should  have  thought  that  Mund  Burke  would  have  had  more 
sense."  The  following  is  the  epitaph  as  it  stands  inscribed  on 
a  white  marble  tablet  beneath  the  bust : 

"OLIVARII  GOLDSMITH,^ 

Poetae,  Pysici,  Historic!, 
Qui  nullum  fere  scribendi  genus 

NOD  tetigit, 

Nullum  quod  tetigit  non  ornavit 
Sive  risus  essent  movendi, 

Sive  lacrymae, 

Affectuum  potens  ac  lenis  dominator: 
Ingenio  sublimis,  vividus,  versatilis, 
Oratione  grandis,  nitidus,  veuustus: 
Hoc  monumento  memoriam  coluit 
Sodalium  amor, 
Amicorum  fides, 
Lectorum  veneratio. 

N»tus  in  Hibernia  Porniae  Longfordiensis, 
In  loco  cui  nomen  Pallas, 
Nov.  xxix.  MDCCXXXI.  ;» 
Eblanae  literis  insti tutus; 

Obiit  Londini, 
April  iv.  MDCCLXXIV."  * 

1  The  following  translation  is  from  Croker's  edition  of  Boswell's  Johnson. 
OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  — 
A  Poet,  Naturalist,  and  Historian 
Who  left  scarcely  any  style  of  writing  untouched, 
And  touched  nothing  that  he  did  not  adorn ; 

Of  all  the  passions, 
Whether  smiles  were  to  be  moved  or  tears, 

A  powerful  yet  gentle  master; 

In  genius,  sublime,  vivid,  versatile, 

In  style,  elevated,  clear,  elegant  — 

The  love  of  companions, 

Tho  fidelity  of  friends, 

And  the  veneration  of  readers, 

Have  by  this  monument  honored  the  memory. 

He  was  born  in  Ireland, 

At  a  place  called  Pallas, 

fin  the  parish]  of  Forney,  [and  county]  of  Longford, 

On  the  29th  Nov.,  1731. 
Educated  at  [the-  University  of]  Dublin, 
And  died  in  London, 
•iin  Ai-i.i,  1774. 

*  Not  correct.    The  true  date  of  birth  was  10th  Nov.,  1728,  as  given  on  p.  13. 


246  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

We  shall  not  pretend  to  follow  these  anecdotes  of  the  life  of 
Goldsmith  with  any  critical  dissertation  on  his  writings ;  their 
merits  have  long  since  been  fully  discussed,  and  their  station 
in  the  scale  of  literary  merit  permanently  established.  They 
have  outlasted  generations  of  works  of  higher  power  and  wider 
scope,  and  will  continue  to  outlast  succeeding  generations,  for 
they  have  that  magic  charm  of  style  by  which  works  are  em- 
balmed to  perpetuity.  Neither  shall  we  attempt  a  regular 
analysis  of  the  character  of  the  poet,  but  will  indulge  in  a  few 
desultory  remarks  in  addition  to  those  scattered  throughout  the 
preceding  chapters. 

Never  was  the  trite,  because  sage  apothegm,  that  "  The  child 
is  father  to  the  man,"  more  fully  verified  than  in  the  case  of 
Goldsmith.  He  is  shy,  awkward,  and  blundering  in  child- 
hood, yet  full  of  sensibility ;  he  is  a  butt  for  the  jeers  and 
jokes  of  his  companions,  but  apt  to  surprise  and  confound 
them  by  sudden  and  witty  repartees ;  he  is  dull  and  stupid  at 
his  tasks,  yet  an  eager  and  intelligent  devourer  of  the  travel- 
ling tales  and  campaigning  stories  of  his  half  military  peda- 
gogue ;  he  may  be  a  dunce,  but  he  is  already  a  rhymer ;  and 
his  early  scintillations  of  poetry  awaken  the  expectations  of 
his  friends.  He  seems  from  infancy  to  have  been  compounded 
of  two  natures,  one  bright,  the  other  blundering ;  or  to  have 
had  fairy  gifts  laid  in  his  cradle  by  the  "good  people"  who 
haunted  his  birthplace,  the  old  goblin  mansion  on  the  banks  of 
the  Inny. 

He  carries  with  him  the  wayward  elfin  spirit,  if  we  may  so 
term  it,  throughout  his  career.  His  fairy  gifts  are  of  no  avail 
at  school,  academy,  or  college ;  they  unfit  him  for  close  study 
and  practical  science,  and  render  him  heedless  of  every  thing 
that  does  not  address  itself  to  his  poetical  imagination  and 
genial  and  festive  feelings ;  they  dispose  him  to  break  away 
from  restraint,  to  stroll  about  hedges,  green  lanes,  and  haunted 
streams,  to  revel  with  jovial  companions,  or  to  rove  the  country 
like  a  gypsy  in  quest  of  odd  adventures. 

As  if  confiding  in  these  delusive  gifts,  he  takes  no  heed  of 
the  present  nor  care  for  the  future,  lays  no  regular  and  solid 
foundation  of  knowledge,  follows  out  no  plan,  adopts  and  dis- 
cards those  recommended  by  his  friends,  at  one  time  prepares 
for  the  ministry,  next  turns  to  the  law,  and  then  fixes  upon 
medicine.  He  repairs  to  Edinburgh,  the  great  emporium  of 
medical  science,  but  the  fairy  gifts  accompany  nim ;  he  idles 
and  frolics  away  his  time  there,  imbibing  only  such  knowledge 
as  is  agreeable  to  him ;  makes  an  excursion  to  the  poetical 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  24T 

regions  of  the  Highlands  ;  and  having  walked  the  hospitals  for 
the  customary  time,  sets  off  to  ramble  over  the  Continent,  in 
quest  of  novelty  rather  than  knowledge.  His  whole  tour  is  a 
poetical  one.  He  fancies  he  is  playing  the  philosopher  while 
he  is  really  playing  the  poet ;  and  though  professedly  he 
attends  lectures  and  visits  foreign  universities,  so  deficient  is 
he  on  his  return,  in  the  studies  for  which  he  set  out,  that  he 
fails  in  an  examination  as  a  surgeon's  mate ;  and  while  figur- 
ing as  a  doctor  of  medicine,  is  outvied  on  a  point  of  practice 
by  his  apothecary.  Baffled  in  every  regular  pursuit,  after 
trying  in  vain  some  of  the  humbler  callings  of  commonplace 
life,  he  is  driven  almost  by  chance  to  the  exercise  of  his  pen, 
and  here  the  fairy  gifts  come  to  his  assistance.  For  a  long 
time,  however,  he  seems  unaware  of  the  magic  properties  of 
that  pen ;  he  uses  it  only  as  a  makeshift  until  he  can  find  a 
legitimate  means  of  support.  He  is  not  a  learned  man,  and 
can  write  but  meagrely  and  at  second-hand  on  learned  sub- 
jects ;  but  he  has  a  quick  convertible  talent  that  seizes  lightly 
on  the  points  of  knowledge  necessary  to  the  illustration  of  a 
theme ;  his  writings  for  a  time  are  desultory,  the  fruits  of 
what  he  has  seen  and  felt,  or  what  he  has  recently  and  hastily 
read ;  but  his  gifted  pen  transmutes  every  thing  into  gold,  and 
his  own  genial  nature  reflects  its  sunshine  through  his  pages. 

Still  unaware  of  his  powers  he  throws  off  his  writings 
anonymously,  to  go  with  the  writings  of  less  favored  men ; 
and  it  is  a  long  time,  and  after  a  bitter  struggle  with  poverty 
and  humiliation,  before  he  acquires  confidence  in  his  literary 
talent  as  a  means  of  support,  and  begins  to  dream  of  reputa- 
tion. 

From  this  time  his  pen  is  a  wand  of  power  in  his  hand,  and 
he  has  only  to  use  it  discreetly,  to  make  it  competent  to  all  his 
wants.  But  discretion  is  not  a  part  of  Goldsmith's  nature ;  and 
it  seems  the  property  of  these  fairy  gifts  to  be  accompanied  by 
moods  and  temperaments  to  render  their  effect  precarious.  The 
heedlessuess  of  bis  early  days  ;  his  disposition  for  social  enjoy- 
ment ;  his  habit  of  throwing  the  present  on  the  neck  of  the  fu- 
ture, still  continue.  His  expenses  forerun  his  means ;  he  incurs 
debts  on  the  faith  of  what  his  magic  pen  is  to  produce,  and 
then,  under  the  pressure  of  his  debts,  sacrifices  its  productions 
for  prices  far  below  their  value.  It  is  a  redeeming  circumstance 
in  his  prodigality,  that  it  is  lavished  oftener  upon  others  than 
upon  himself  ;  he  gives  without  thought  or  stint,  and  is  the  con- 
tinual dupe  of  his  benevolence  and  his  trustfulness  in  human 
nature.  We  may  say  of  him  as  he  says  of  one  of  his  heroes, 


248  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

11  He  could  not  stifle  the  natural  impulse  which  he  had  to  do 
good,  but  frequently  borrowed  money  to  relieve  the  distressed  ; 
and  when  he  knew  not  conveniently  where  to  borrow,  he  has 
3een  observed  to  shed  tears  as  he  passed  through  the  wretched 
uppliants  who  attended  his  gate."  .  .  . 

"  His  simplicity  in  trusting  persons  whom  he  had  no  previous 
reasons  to  place  confidence  in,  seems  to  be  one  of  those  lights 
of  his  character  which,  while  they  impeach  his  understanding, 
do  honor  to  his  benevolence.  The  low  and  the  timid  are  ever 
suspicious ;  but  a  heart  impressed  with  honorable  sentiments 
expects  from  others  sympathetic  sincerity." l 

His  heedlessness  in  pecuniary  matters,  which  had  rendered 
his  life  a  struggle  with  poverty  even  in  the  days  of  his  obscurity, 
rendered  the  struggle  still  more  intense  when  his  fairy  gifts  had 
elevated  him  into  the  society  of  the  wealthy  and  luxurious,  and 
imposed  on  his  simple  and  generous  spirit  fancied  obligations  to 
a  more  ample  and  bounteous  display. 

"  How  comes  it,"  says  a  recent  and  ingenious  critic,  "  that 
in  all  the  miry  paths  of  life  which  he  had  trod,  no  speck  ever 
sullied  the  robe  of  his  modest  and  graceful  muse.  How  amidst 
all  that  love  of  inferior  company,  which  never  to  the  last  for- 
sook him,  did  he  keep  his  genius  so  free  from  every  touch  of 
vulgarity?  " 

We  answer  that  it  was  owing  to  the  innate  purity  and  good- 
ness of  his  nature ;  there  was  nothing  in  it  that  assimilated  to 
vice  and  vulgarity.  Though  his  circumstances  often  compelled 
him  to  associate  with  the  poor,  they  never  could  betray  him  into 
companionship  with  the  depraved.  His  relish  for  humor  and 
for  the  study  of  character,  as  we  have  before  observed,  brought 
him  often  into  convivial  company  of  a  vulgar  kind ;  but  he  dis- 
criminated between  their  vulgarity  and  their  amusing  qualities, 
or  rather  wrought  from  the  whole  those  familiar  pictures  of  life 
which  form  the  staple  of  his  most  popular  writings. 

Much,  too,  of  this  intact  purity  of  heart  may  be  ascribed  to 
the  lessons  of  his  infancy  under  the  paternal  roof  ;  to  the  gentle, 
benevolent,  elevated,  unworldly  maxims  of  his  father,  who, 
"  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year,"  infused  a  spirit  into 
his  child  which  riches  could  not  deprave  nor  poverty  degrade. 
Much  of  his  boyhood,  too,  had  been  passed  in  the  household  of 
his  uncle,  the  amiable  and  generous  Contarine ;  where  he  talked 
of  literature  with  the  good  pastor,  and  practised  music  with  his 
daughter,  and  delighted  them  both  by  his  juvenile  attempts  at 

*  Gold.mlth'8  Life  of  Na»h. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  249 

poetry.  These  early  associations  breathed  a  grace  and  refine- 
ment into  his  mind  and  tuned  it  up,  after  the  rough  sports  on 
the  green,  or  the  frolics  at  the  tavern.  These  led  him  to  turn 
from  the  roaring  glees  of  the  club,  to  listen  to  the  harp  of  his 
cousin  Jane;  and  from  the  rustic  triumph  of  "throwing 
sledge,"  to  a  stroll  with  his  flute  along  the  pastoral  banks  of  the 
Inny. 

The  gentle  spirit  of  his  father  walked  with  him  through  life, 
a  pure  and  virtuous  monitor ;  and  in  all  the  vicissitudes  of  his 
career  we  find  him  ever  more  chastened  in  mind  by  the  sweet 
and  holy  recollections  of  the  home  of  his  infancy. 

It  has  been  questioned  whether  he  really  had  any  religious 
feeling.  Those  who  raise  the  question  have  never  considered 
well  his  writings ;  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  and  his  pictures  of 
the  Village  Pastor,  present  religion  under  its  most  endearing 
forms,  and  with  a  feeling  that  could  only  flow  from  the  deep 
convictions  of  the  heart.  When  his  fair  travelling  companions 
at  Paris  urged  him  to  read  the  Church  Service  on  a  Sunday,  he 
replied  that  "he  was  not  worthy  to  do  it."  He  had  seen  in 
early  life  the  sacred  offices  performed  by  his  father  and  his 
brother,  with  a  solemnity  which  had  sanctified  them  in  his 
memory ;  how  could  he  presume  to  undertake  such  functions  ? 
His  religion  has  been  called  in  question  by  Johnson  and  by  Bos- 
well  ;  he  certainly  had  not  fche  gloomy  hypochondriacal  piety  of 
the  one,  nor  the  babbling  mouth-piety  of  the  other ;  but  the 
spirit  of  Christian  charity  breathed  forth  in  his  writings  and 
illustrated  in  his  conduct  give  us  reason  to  believe  he  had  the 
indwelling  religion  of  the  soul. 

We  have  made  sufficient  comments  in  the  preceding  chapters 
on  his  conduct  in  elevated  circles  of  literature  and  fashion.  The 
fairy  gifts  which  took  him  there,  were  not  accompanied  by  the 
gifts  and  graces  necessary  to  sustain  him  in  that  artificial  sphere. 
He  can  neither  play  the  learned  sage  with  Johnson,  nor  the  fine 
gentleman  with  Beauclerc,  though  he  has  a  mind  replete  with 
wisdom  and  natural  shrewdness,  and  a  spirit  free  from  vulgarity. 
The  blunders  of  a  fertile  but  hurried  intellect,  and  the  awkward 
display  of  the  student  assuming  the  man  of  fashion,  fix  on  him 
a  character  for  absurdity  and  vanity  which,  like  the  charge  of 
lunacy,  it  is  hard  to  disprove,  however  weak  the  grounds  of  the 
charge  and  strong  the  facts  in  opposition  to  it. 

In  truth,  he  is  never  truly  in  his  place  in  these  learned  and 
fashionable  circles,  which  talk  and  live  for  display.  It  is  not 
the  kind  of  society  he  craves.  His  heart  yearns  for  domestic 
life ;  it  craves  familiar,  confiding  intercourse,  family  firesides, 


250  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

the  guileless  and  happy  company  of  children ;  these  bring  out 
the  heartiest  and  sweetest  sympathies  of  his  nature. 

"  Had  it  been  his  fate,"  says  the  critic  we  have  already 
quoted,  "  to  meet  a  woman  who  could  have  loved  him,  despite 
his  faults,  and  respected  him  despite  his  foibles,  we  cannot 
but  think  that  his  life  and  his  genius  would  have  been  much 
more  harmonious ;  his  desultory  affections  would  have  been 
concentred,  his  craving  self-love  appeased,  his  pursuits  more 
settled,  his  character  more  solid.  A  nature  like  Goldsmith's, 
so  affectionate,  so  confiding  —  so  susceptible  to  simple,  inno- 
cent enjoyments  —  so  dependent  on  others  for  the  sunshine  of 
existence,  does  not  flower  if  deprived  of  the  atmosphere  of 
home." 

The  cravings  of  his  heart  in  this  respect  are  evident,  we 
think,  throughout  his  career ;  and  if  we  have  dwelt  with  more 
significancy  than  others,  upon  his  intercourse  with  the  beautiful 
Horneck  family,  it  is  because  we  fancied  we  could  detect,  amid 
his  playful  attentions  to  one  of  its  members,  a  lurking  sentiment 
of  tenderness,  kept  down  by  conscious  poverty  and  a  humiliating 
idea  of  personal  defects.  A  hopeless  feeling  of  this  kind  —  the 
last  a  man  would  communicate  to  his  friends  —  might  account 
for  much  of  that  fitfulness  of  conduct,  and  that  gathering  mel- 
ancholy, remarked,  but  not  comprehended  by  his  associates, 
during  the  last  year  or  two  of  his  life  ;  and  may  have  been  one 
of  the  troubles  of  the  mind  which  aggravated  his  last  illness, 
and  only  terminated  with  his  death. 

We  shall  conclude  these  desultory  remarks  with  a  few  which 
have  been  used  by  us  on  a  former  occasion.  From  the  general 
tone  of  Goldsmith's  biography,  it  is  evident  that  his  faults,  at 
the  worst,  were  but  negative,  while  his  merits  were  great  and 
decided.  He  was  no  one's  enemy  but  his  own ;  his  errors,  in 
the  main,  inflicted  evil  on  none  but  himself,  and  were  so  blended 
with  humorous,  and  even  affecting  circumstances,  as  to  disarm 
anger  and  conciliate  kindness.  Where  eminent  talent  is  united 
to  spotless  virtue,  we  are  awed  and  dazzled  into  admiration,  but 
our  admiration  is  apt  to  be  cold  and  reverential ;  while  there  is 
something  in  the  harmless  infirmities  of  a  good  and  great,  but 
erring  individual,  that  pleads  touchingly  to  our  nature  ;  and  we 
turn  more  kindly  toward  the  object  of  our  idolatry,  when  we 
find  that,  like  ourselves,  he  is  mortal  and  is  frail.  The  epithet 
so  often  heard,  and  in  such  kindly  tones,  of  "  Poor  Goldsmith," 
speaks  volumes.  Few  who  consider  the  real  compound  of  ad- 
mirable and  whimsical  qualities  which  form  his  character,  would 
wish  to  prune  away  its  eccentricities,  trim  its  grotesque  luxun 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  251 

ance,  and  clip  it  down  to  the  decent  formalities  of  rigid  virtue. 
"  Let  not  his  frailties  be  remembered,"  said  Johnson ;  "  he  was 
a  very  great  man."  But,  for  our  part,  we  rather  say,  **  Let 
them  be  remembered,"  since  their  tendency  is  to  endear ;  and 
we  question  whether  he  himself  would  not  feel  gratified  in  hear- 
ing his  reader,  after  dwelling  with  admiration  on  the  proofs  of 
his  greatness,  close  the  volume  with  the  kind-hearted  phrase,  so 
fondly  and  familiarly  ejaculated,  of  "  POOR  GOLDSMITH." 


./  \ 


